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THE  MODERN  BOOKS  OF  VERSE 


THE    LE   GALLIENNE 
BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 


THE  LE   GALLIENNE 
BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

EDITED   WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION 
BY 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


^ 

^r 


BONI     AND     LIVERIGHT 
NEW    YORK  1922 


The  Le  Gallienne  Book  of  Engush  Verse 


Copyright,  igzz,  by 
BoNi  &  Liveright,  Inc 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

]l-  73039 


THE  LE  GALLIENNE 
BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The  Editor  and  the  Publisher  wish  to  acknowledge  the  kind- 
ness of  the  following  Publishers  who  have  permitted  the  use 
of  many  selections  from  their  lists  in  this  Anthology: 

To  the  John  Lane  Co.,  for  permission  to  use  poems  by 

John  Davidson,  William  Watson,  Ernest  Dowson,  Fran- 
cis Thompson,  A.  E.  Housman,  A.  C.  Benson,  Victor 
Plarr,  Rosamund  Marriott-Watson,  Arthur  Symons, 
Lionel  Johnson,  Lascelles  Abercrombie,  W.  M.  Letts, 
Laurence  Hope,  Stephen  Phillips  and  Rupert  Brooke. 

To  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  for  the  use  of  "In  Flanders  Field," 
by  Colonel  John  Macrae,  and  poems  bj^  Norman  Gale. 

To  Brentano's,  for  poems  by  Francis  Ledwidge. 

To  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  for  poem  by  John  Drinkwater. 

To  Henry  Holt  and  Co.,  for  poems  by  Walter  de  la  Mare. 

To  B.  W.  Huebsch,  Inc.,  for  poems  by  D.  H.  Lawrence  and 
James  Joyce. 

To  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Co.,  for  poems  by  Siegfried  Sassoon. 

To  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc.,  for  poems  by  Robert  Graves. 

To  Small,  Maynard  and  Co.,  for  poems  by  Bliss  Carman. 

To  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  poems  by  Richard  Middleton. 

To  L.  C.  Page  and  Co.,  for  poems  by  C.  G.  D.  Roberts. 

To  F.  A.  Stokes  Co.,  for  poems  by  Alfred  Noyes  and  Robert 
Nichols. 

To  The  Macmillan  Co.,  for  poems  by  W.  B.  Yeats,  W.  W. 
Gibson,  Ralph  Hodgson  and  James  Stephens. 

And  to  Mr.  Curtis  Brown  for  his  courtesy  in  obtaining  the 
consent  of  John  Masefield  for  inclusion  in  this  volume. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

King  Cnut  (1017-1035) 

Merrily  Sang  the  Menkes  in  Ely 1 

Anonymous  (1250) 

Summer  Is   I-Comen   In 1 

Layamon   (12th  or  13th  Century) 

King  Arthur 1 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  (1328-1400) 

Some  Characters   from  "The  Canterbury  Tales"    .      .         2 

From  "The  Dream" 4 

The  Complaint  to  His  Empty  Purpe 4 

Merciles   Beaute    (A   Triple   Roundel) 5 

Written  on  His  Deathbed 6 

James  I  of  Scotland   (1395-1437) 

From  "The  King's  Quhair" 7 

William   Dunbar    (1460-1521) 

O  Reverend  Chaucer !  Rose  of  Rhetoris  All  ...  8 
Stephen  Hawes   (d.  1523) 

His    Epitaph        8 

John  Skelton   (1460-1529) 

To  Mistress  Margery  Wentworth 8 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt   (1503-1542) 

My   Lute,    Awake 9 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (1517-1547) 

Summer   Is   Come 10 

Richard  Edwardes    (1523-1566) 

Amantium    Iras         10 

Queen  Elizabeth   (1533-1603) 

The  Doubt 11 

John  Still,  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  (1543-1608) 

Jolly  Good  Ale  and  Old 12 

Nicolas  Breton  (1545?-1626?) 

A  Cradle  Song 13 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552?-1618) 

The  Faerie  Queen 14 

His    Pilgrimage 15 

The    Conclusion 16 

Ballads  (Anonymous) 

Thomas    the    Rhymer        16 

Helen  of  Kirconnell 19 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Waly,    Waly        20 

Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty 21 

Phillada  Flouts  Me 22 

Clerk    Saunders        24 

The   Twa    Corbies         27 

Binnorie          28 

Sir    Patrick    Spans        30 

Chevy  Chase 32 

Edmund   Spenser   (1552-1599) 

Epithalamion 39 

Prothalamion 48 

Sonnets 52 

John  Lyly  (1553-1606) 

Cupid  and  Cainpaspe 53 

The  Fairy  Frolic 53 

Sir  Phiup  Sidney    (1554-1586) 

Sonnets  from  "Astrophel  and  Stella"         53 

Song  from  "Astrophel  and  Stella" 55 

From    the   "Arcadia" 56 

A  Dirge 57 

Thomas  Lodge  (1556-1625) 

Rosalind's    Madrigal,    from    "Rosalind" 58 

George  Peele  (1558?-1597?) 

A  Farewell  to  Arms  {To  Queen  Elizabeth)   ....  59 

From  "The  Love  of  King  David  and  Fair  Bethsabe"  .  59 

Robert  Greene   (1560?-1592) 

Sephestia's   Lullaby 60 

Samuel  Daniel   (1562-1619) 

From  "To  Delia" 61 

Henry  Constable  (1563-1613) 

My  Lady's  Presence  Makes  the  Roses  Red   ....  61 

Michael  Drayton  (1563-1631) 

Agincourt    (October  25,   1415) 62 

The    Parting 64 

Christopher  Marlowe   (1564-1593) 

From  "The  Life  and  Death  of  Dr.  Faustus"  ....  65 

Chorus  on  the  Death  of  Faustus 65 

The  Passionate   Shepherd  to  His  Love 65 

Walter  Raleigh    (1552?-1618) 

The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate  Shepherd   .     .  66 

Wllliam   Shakespeare   (1564-1616) 

From  "The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona" 67 

"     "Love's  Labour  Lost" 67 

"    "A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream" 68 

"    "As  You  Like  It" 69 

"    "Much  Ado  About  Nothing" 71 

"     "Hamlet"        71 

"    "Twelfth   Night" 71 


CONTENTS  vii 

PAGE 

From  "Measure     for     Measure"     and     "The     Bloody 

Brother"   (Fletcher) 73 

"    "Cymbeline" 72 

"    "The  Winter's  Tale" 73 

"    "The   Tempest"        73 

"     "The    Passionate    Pilgrim" 74 

"    "Sonnets" — xxix,  xxx,  xxxiii,  Iv,  Ix,  Ixxiii,  civ, 

cvi,   cxvi,  cxlvi 75 

"    "The  Merchant  of  Venice" 78 

"     "Romeo  and  Juliet" 79 

"     "Henry  V." 80 

"    "As  You  Like  It" 80 

"     "Hamlet"        81 

"     "Measure   for  Measure" 83 

"    "Antony  and  Cleopatra" 82 

"    "The  Winter's  Tale" 82 

"     "The    Tempest" 83 

Thomas  Campion  (1567-1630) 

Follow    Your    Saint 83 

Vobiscum  est  lope 83 

Cherry-Ripe        84 

Winter    Nights 84 

Amarillis          85 

Sir  Henry  Wotton   (1568-1639) 

Elizabeth  of  Bohemia 86 

The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life 86 

Thomas  Dekker   (1570-1641) 

The  Happy  Heart,  from  "Patient  Grissell"   ....  87 

From  "The  Honest  Whore" 87 

The  Old  and  Young  Courtier   (attributed)    ....  88 
Ben  Jonson  (1573-1637) 

From  "Cynthia's  Revels" 89 

From   "The  Forest" 89 

Simplex  Munditiis 90 

From  "Love's  Chariot" 90 

From  "An  Ode  to  Sir  Lucius  Cary  and  Sir  H.  Morrison"  90 

From  "An  Epithalamium" 90 

On   the    Portrait   of    Shakespeare 91 

To    the    Memory    of    My    Beloved    Master    William 

Shakespeare 91 

John  Donne  (1573-1631) 

The   Good   Morrow 93 

Absence           94 

The   Dream 94 

A  Valediction  Forbidding  Mourning 95 

The   Funeral 96 

Song           96 

From   "Epithalamion"        97 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Richard  Barnfield  (1574-1627) 

Philomel  97 

John  Fletcher  (1579-1625) 

Love's  Emblems,  from  "Valentinian" 98 

Melancholy,  from  "The  Nice  Valor" 99 

God  Laeus 99 

John  Webster  (1580?-1625?) 

A  Dirge   from   "The  White   Devil" 99 

Vanitas  Vanitatum 100 

Richard  Corbet    (1582-1635) 
Farewell   to   the   Fairies 100 

WnxiAM  Basse  (1583-1653) 

Renowned    Spenser,   Lie   a  Thought  More   Nigh    .      .     101 

William    Drummond,  of  Hawthornden    (1585-1649) 

Invocation 102 

Sonnet 103 

Francis  Beaumont  (1586-1615) 

From  Letter  to  Ben  Jonson 103 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
Aspatia's   Song 104 

Thomas  Carew  (1587-1639) 

Song 104 

Epitaph 104 

George  Wither  (1588-1667) 
The   Lover's   Resolution 105 

William   Browne   (1591-1643?) 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke   .      .     106 

Francis  Quarles   (1592-1644) 
The  Vanity  of  the  World 106 

George  Herbert  (1593-1633) 

Virtue         107 

Easter        108 

Robert   Herrick    (1594-1674) 

His  Theme 108 

To  Meadows 109 

Whcnas  in  Silks  My  Julia  Goes 109 

The  Night-Piece,  to  Julia 109 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 110 

To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time Ill 

Delight  in   Disorder 112 

To  Daffodils 112 

To  Anthea,  Who  May  Command  Him  Anything   .      .     113 

To    Ben    Jonson 113 

A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for  His  House 114 

James  Shirley   (1596-1666) 

Death  the  Conqueror 115 

Thomas  Randolph  (1605-1635) 
An  Ode  to  Master  Anthony  Stafford  to  Hasten  Him 

into  the   Country 116 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

Sir  William  Davenant  (1606-1668) 

Morning  Song 118 

Edmund  Waller  (1606-1687) 

"Go,   Lovely  Rose" 118 

On  a  Girdle 119 

Old   Age    and   Death 119 

John  Milton   (1608-1674) 

Song  from  "Arcades" 119 

From    "Comus"        120 

L'Allegro        122 

II   Penseroso 125 

Lycidas 129 

On  the  Admirable  Dramatic  Poet,  W.  Shakespeare   .  133 

To  the  Nightingale 133 

How    Soon    Hath    Time 133 

On   His   Blindness 134 

On  His   Deceased  Wife 134 

On  the  Late   Massacre  in   Piedmont 134 

Sir  John  Suckling  (1608-1641) 

A  Ballad  Upon  a  Wedding 135 

Song          138 

Richard  Crashaw   (1613-1650) 

Wishes  to  His  Supposed  Mistress 138 

Hymn   to  the   Name  of  Jesus 142 

Richard  Lovelace  (1618-1658) 

To  Althea,   from   Prison 142 

To  Lucasta,  Going  to  the  Wars 143 

Abraham  Cowley  (1618-1667) 

The  Wish 143 

Drinking         144 

Andrew  Marvell  (1621-1678) 

An    Horatian    Ode    Upon    Cromwell's    Return    from 

Ireland 145 

The   Garden         148 

Henry  Vaughan    (1622-1695) 

The   Retreat        150 

Friends  Departed 150 

John  Bunyan   (1628-1688) 

Shepherd  Bov's  Song 151 

John  Dryden   (1631-1700) 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton 152 

From    "Alexander's    Feast" 152 

Song          153 

Ah,  How  Sweet  It  Is  to  Love! 153 

Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset  (1638-1706) 
Written  at  Sea,  in  the  First  Dutch  War    (1665),  the 

Night  Before  an  Engagement 154 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester   (1647-1680) 

On   Charles   II 156 

To   His    Mistress 156 

Matthew  Prior   (1664-1721) 

Chloe  157 

Epitaph    on    Himself 158 

WlLI-IAM    CONGRFA'E    (1670-1729) 

From   "The   Mourning   Bride" 158 

Joseph  Addison    (1672-1719) 

"The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High" 158 

Isaac  Watts   (1674-1748) 

"O  God  1  Our  Help  in  x\ges  Past"  ........  159 

Wia-iAM  Oldys   (1687-1761) 

On  a  Fly  Drinking  Out  of  His  Cup 159 

Alexander  Pope  (1688-1744) 

From  "Satires" 160 

"     the  "Essay  on  Man" 160 

"     "The  Rape  of  the  Lock" 161 

The  Dying  Christian  to  His  Soul 161 

James  Thomson  (1700-1748) 

From  "The   Castle  of  Indolence" 162 

Rule,  Brittannia 163 

Henry  Carey   (1693?-1743) 

Sally    in    Our    Alley 163 

Samuel  Johnson   (1709-1784) 

One-and-Twenty 165 

William  Shenstone  (1714-1763) 

Written  at  An  Inn  at  Henley 165 

Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771) 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 166 

From  "The  Progress  of  Poetry,"  a  Pindaric  Ode  .     .  169 

William  Collins   (1721-1759) 

Fidele's    Dirge 170 

"How  Sleep  the  Brave" 171 

Ode  to  Evening 171 

Christopher  Smart  (1722-1771) 

From   "Song   to    David" 173 

Olu'er  Goldsmith   (1728-1774) 

From  "The  Deserted  Village" 173 

Woman 176 

William   Covvper   (1731-1800) 

To  Marv  Unvvin 176 

From   "The  Task."   Book  III,   "The  Garden"    ...  177 

"     "The  Task" 177 

A  Comparison.     Addressed  to  a  Young  Lady  .      .      .  177 

Boadicca.    An  Ode 178 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 179 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld  (1743-1825) 

Life .;    (.     ^     .     .     .  380 

Sir  William  Jones  (1746-1794) 

The  State v     ....  180 

John  Logan  (1748-1788) 

To  the  Cuckoo 181 

Thomas  Chatterton    (1752-1770) 

Minstrel's  Song  in  "Ella" 182 

George  Crabbe  (1754-1832) 

The   Parish  Workhouse,   from  "The   Village"    .      .     .  183 
"Age,   with   Stealing   Steps  .  .  ."   from   "Tales  of  the 

Hall"        184 

William  Blake  (1757-1827) 

Reeds    of    Innocence 185 

Infant  Joy 185 

My  Silks  and  Fine  Array 186 

The    Tiger 186 

The  Voice  of  the  Bard 187 

Ah,  Sunflower 187 

Milton        187 

A  Poison  Tree 188 

The  Garden  of  Love 188 

From  "The  Grey  Monk" 189 

Robert  Burns  (1759-1796) 

Bonnie  Doon 189 

"Comin'  Through  the  Rye" 190 

"Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  O !" 190 

"Ae  Fond  Kiss" 191 

My   Bonnie   Mary 191 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 192 

Jean 192 

Auld    Lang   Syne 193 

Bruce  to  His  Men  at  Bannockburn 193 

John  Anderson 194 

Highland    Mary             194 

To   Mary  in   Heaven 195 

James  Hogg   (1770-1835) 

A  Boy's   Song 196 

William   Wordsworth    (1770-1850) 

Lucy,  I,  Ti,  HI,  IV,  V 197 

The   Solitary  Reaper 199 

Perfect  Woman 200 

The  Rainbow 201 

To  the  Cuckoo 201 

"I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud" 202 

Sonnets — 

Scorn  Not  the  Sonnet 202 

The    Sonnet-Prison 203 


xii  CONTPZNTS 

PAGE 

Sunset  and  Sea 203 

The  World  Is  Too  Much  With   Us 203 

Composed  Upon  Westminster  Bridge 204 

England,  1802 204 

Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollec- 
tions  of    Early   Childhood 205 

From  "Lines   Composed  a  Few  Miles  Above  Tintern 

Abbey"           210 

Ode    to    Duty 211 

Sir  Walter  Scott  (1771-1832) 

Hunting  Song 212 

Lucy  Ashton's   Song 213 

"Sound,    Sound   the    Clarion" 213 

Proud  Alaisie 213 

From  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel" 214 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (1772-1834) 

The   Rime   of   the   Ancient    Mariner 214 

Kubla   Khan        230 

The    Knight's    Tomb 231 

Work  Without  Hope 232 

Love 232 

From    "Christabel"        234 

Epitaph   on   Himself 235 

Robert  Southey   (1774-1843) 

"My  Days  Among  the  Dead  Are  Passsed"  ....  235 

Walter  Savage  Landor  (1775-1864) 

Rose  Aylmer 236 

Dirce 236 

To  Robert  Browning    . 236 

How  Many  Voices  Gaily  Sing 237 

Why,  Why  Repine? 237 

I  Strove  With   None 237 

Charles  Lamb  (1775-1834) 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 237 

Hester        238 

Thomas  Campbell   (1777-1844) 

"Ye  Mariners  of  England" 239 

Thomas  Moore  (1779-18.52) 

"The  Young  May  Moon" 240 

Tara 240 

At  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night 241 

" 'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer" 241 

Edward  Thurlow    (Lord  Tiiurlow)    (1781-1829) 

May 242 

Leigh  Hunt   (1784-18.59) 

Jenny    Kiss'd    Me    .... 242 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 243 

Abou  Ben  Adhcm 243 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

Thomas  Love  Peacock  (1785-1866) 
The  War-Song  of   Dinas  Vawr,   from   "The  Misfor- 
tunes of   Elphin" 243 

From  the  Same 244 

George  Gordon  Byron,  Lord  Byron  (1788-1824) 

To  the  Ocean,  from  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage"  .     .  244 

The   Isles   of   Greece 245 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 248 

"She  Walks  in   Beauty" 248 

So,  We'll  Go  No  More  a  Roving 249 

My  Boat  Is  on  the   Shore 249 

Byron's    Farewell 249 

Charles  Wolfe  (1791-1823) 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  After  Corunna  ...  251 

Percy  Bvsshe  Shelley  (1792-1822) 

To    a    Skylark 252 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 354 

From   "Adonais" 256 

To    Night 259 

Lines  to   an   Indian   Air 260 

To  260 

Music,  When  Soft  Voices  Die 261 

Hellas         261 

From   "Prometheus   Unbound" 262 

John   Keats    (1795-1821) 

On  First  Looking  Into  Chapman's  Homer   ....  262 

"When    I    Have    Fears" 263 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Maia 263 

From  "The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes" 263 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 266 

On    Melancholy        267 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 268 

Ode  to   Psyche 269 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 270 

To   Autumn         272 

Last    Sonnet 273 

George  Darlev    (1795-1846) 

From    "Sylvia"         273 

Hartley  Coleridge   (1796-1849) 

Song          274 

Thomas  Hood  (1799-1845) 

The   Song  of   the    Shirt 275 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 277 

Fair   Ines        .      .      .      .      « 279 

Silence 280 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  Lord  Macaulay  (1800- 
1859) 

From  "Horatius" 281 


xiv  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sir  Hexrv  Taylor  (1800-1886) 

Elena's   Song 282 

William   Barnes    (1801-1886) 

The   Woodlands 282 

John  Henrv  Newman   (1801-1890) 

The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud 283 

WiNTHROP   Mack  WORTH    Praed    (1802-1839) 

Fairy    Song          283 

James  Clarence  Mangan    (1803-1849) 

Dark  Rosaleen 284 

Thomas   Lovell  Beddoes    (1803-1849) 

Dream-Pedlary         286 

Elizabeth   Barrett  Browning   (1806-1861) 

From   "Sonnets    from    the   Portuguese" 286 

A    Denial        288 

A  Musical  Instrument 289 

Edward  Fitzgerald  (1809-1883) 

From  "The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar   Khayyam"   ....  290 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892) 

The  Ladv  of  Shalott 294 

The    Lotos-Eaters         298 

Song  of  the  Lotos-Eaters 299 

Song 302 

From    "In    Memoriam" 303 

"Come   Into   the   Garden,    Maud" 308 

"O   That   'Twere    Possible" 310 

From  "The  Princess" 310 

The    Splendour   Falls   on    Castle   Walls 312 

Tears,   Idle  Tears 312 

O  Swallow,   Swallow 313 

Home   They  Brought  Her  Warrior  Dead   ....  313 

"Break,   Break,    Break" 314 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 314 

Ulysses 315 

Crossing   the    Bar 317 

The    Silent   Voices 317 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray   (1811-1863) 

The  Age  of  Wisdom 318 

The    Sorrows    of    Werther 318 

The  End  of  the  Play 319 

Edward  Lear   (1812-1888) 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat  .      .     .     .-    v     ....  320 

Robert  Browning   (1812-1889) 

From   "Cavalier   Tunes" 321 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 321 

Song  from  "Pippa  Passes" 322 

Evelyn   Hope 322 

Porphyria's    Lover        324 


CONTENTS  X7 

PAGE 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's 325 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 327 

The  Last  Ride  Together 330 

Memorabilia         ._ 333 

Parting   at    Morning 333 

Song,  from  "In  a  Gondola" 333 

Summum   Bonum 334 

Prospice          334 

Epilogue,   from  "Asolando" 335 

Emily  Bronte   (1818-1848) 

The    Prisoner 335 

Last  Lines 336 

George  Eliot  (1819-1880) 

"Oh,    May  I   Join  the   Choir  Invisible" 337 

Charles  Kingsley  (1819-1875) 

The    Sands    of    Dee 337 

The  Three  Fishers 338 

Arthur  Hugh   Clough    (1819-1861) 

"Say  Not,  the  Struggle  Naught  Availeth"   ....  339 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson   (1821-1895) 

The  Unrealised  Ideal 339 

At   Her   Window 340 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888) 

Quiet    Work 340 

Requiescat 341 

Dover  Beach 341 

Morality         342 

The   Scholar-Gypsy 343 

Thyrsis 349 

From    "Empedocles   on    Etna" 354 

Shakespeare        355 

From   "Lines   Written   in   Kensington   Gardens"    .     .  356 

The  Buried  Life 355 

William    (Johnson)    Cory   (1823-1892) 

Heraclitus 358 

Remember 359 

Coventry  Patmore  (1823-1896) 

Winter 359 

The  Toys 360 

Departure 361 

William  Allingham  (1824-1889) 

These  Little  Songs 361 

The    Fairies         362 

Sydney  Dobell  (1824-1874) 

The  Orphan's  Song 363 

The  Ballad  of  Keith  of  Ravelston 366 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  (l828-i882) 

The  Blessed  Damozel 368 


xvi  CONTENTS 

1  he    Sonnet         371 

Sonnets  from   "The  House  of  Life" 371 

A  Superscription 373 

The    Ballade    of    Dead    Ladies,    from    the    French    of 

Frangois  Villon,  14.50 374 

One  Girl  (A  Combination  from  "Sappho")    ....  374 

George  Meredith   (1828-1909) 

Love  in  the  Valley 375 

Lucifer    in    Starlight 380 

From    "Modern    Love" 380 

Christina  G.  Rossetti  (1830-1894) 

A    Birthday         382 

Up-Hill 382 

Song           383 

Rest           383 

Remember 383 

Thomas  Edward  Brown   (1830-1897) 

My  Garden 384 

Lewis  Carroll  (pseud,  of  C.  L.  Dodgson)    (1832-1898) 

Jabberwocky         384 

Sir  Edwin  Arnold   (1832-1904) 

We  Are  the  Voices  of  the  Whispering  Wind   .     .     .  385 

James  Thomson  (1834-1882) 

From  "The  City  of  Dreadful  Night" 385 

The  Vine        386 

Give  a  Man  a  Horse  He  Can  Ride 386 

William  Morris  (1834-1896) 

Prelude  to   "The   Earthly  Paradise" 380 

Love  Is  Enough 387 

The   Nymph's    Song  to   Hylas,    from    "The   Life   and 

Death   of   Jason" 388 

Song  of  Orpheus,  from  "The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason"  388 

John  Leicester  Warren,  Lord  de  Tabley   (1835-1895) 

From    "Orestes" 389 

From  "Hymn  to  Astarte" 390 

Sir  William   Schwenk  Gilbert   (1830-1911) 

The  Yarn  of  the  A'^r7;icv   Bell 390 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe 393 

Theodore    Watts-Dunton    (1836-1914) 

From   "The   Coming  of   Love" 393 

Algernon  Charles   Swinburne   (1837-1909) 

From  "The  Triumph  of  Time" 393 

Chorus  from  "Atalanta  in  Calydon" 395 

The  Garden  of  Prosperine 396 

Ave    Atque    Vale 398 

From  Prologue  to  "Tristram  of  Lyonesse"  ....  403 

A   Match 406 

The  Oblation 408 


CONTENTS  xvH 

PAGE 

Thomas  Hardy  (1840-        ) 

In   the    Moonlight 408 

The  Man  He  Killed 409 

Wilfred  Scawen  Blunt  (1840-        ) 

To  One  Who  Would  Make  a  Confession   ....  409 

To  Manon,  on  His  Fortune  in  Loving  Her  ....  410 

From    "Esther"        410 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-        ) 

A  Garden  Song 410 

The  Ladies  of   St.  James's 411 

The  Ballad  of  Prose  and  Rhyme 412 

In   After   Days 413 

Triolet 414 

Robert   Buchanan    (1841-1901) 

Judas  Iscariot 414 

F.  W.  H.  Myers    (1843-1901) 

The  Inner  Light 416 

Arthur   O'Shaughnessy    (1844-1881) 

Ode 417 

Song         417 

Song 418 

Song   from    "Chartivel" 419 

Robert  Bridges  (1844-        ) 

I  Love  All  Beauteous  Things 419 

Elegy  on  a  Lady  Whom  Grief  for  the  Death  of  Her 

Beloved   Killed 420 

Nightingales        . 422 

A  Passer-by 423 

Andrew  Lang  (1844-1891) 

The  Odvssey 423 

Lost  Love 423 

Ballade   of   Middle   Age 424 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton    (1845-1907) 

Idle    Charon        425 

Baudelaire 425 

Grant  Allen    (1848-1901) 

A    Prayer 425 

Edmund  Gosse  (1849-        ) 

To  Austin   Dobson 426 

Impression           426 

William  Ernest  Henley  (1849-1903) 

Invictus 427 

From   "In   Hospital" 428 

"A  Late  Lark  Twitters  from  the  Quiet  Skies"  ...  428 

From    "London    Voluntaries" 429 

Theophile  Marzials  (1850-        ) 

A  Tragedy 431 


xviii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Robert  Louis   Stevenson    (1850-1894) 

Romance         431 

Happv  Thought 431 

In  the  Highlands 432 

Requiem         432 

Philip  Bourke  Marston  (1850-1887) 

It  Must  Have  Been  for  One  of  Us,  My  Own   .      .     .  432 

Alice  Meynell  (1853-        ) 

Renouncement 433 

The  Lady  of  the  Lambs 433 

Fiona  MacLeod  (pseud,  of  William  Sharp)  (1856-1905) 

Mo-lennav-a-chree         434 

Oscar  Wilde  (1856-1900) 

Helas          434 

The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol 435 

Requiescat 450 

Sonnet  to  Liberty 451 

On  the  Recent  Sale  by  Auction  of  Keats'  Love-Letters  451 

The    Harlot's    House 452 

John  Davidson  (1857-1909) 

A  Ballad  of  a  Nun 453 

Butterflies 457 

From  "The  Testament  of  John  Davidson"  ....  457 

From    "Fleet   Street    Ecologues" 458 

E.  Nesbit  (Mrs.  Hubert  Bland)    (1858-        ) 

If  on  Some  Balmy  Summer  Night 458 

William  Watson  (1858-        ) 

Song 458 

From   "Wordsworth's   Grave" 459 

From    "Epigrams"         460 

Autumn          461 

Nightmare  (Written  During  Apparent  Imminence  of 

War)        462 

To  the  Sultan 462 

Alfred  Edward  Housman  (1859-        ) 

From   "A  Shropshire  Lad" 463 

The   Power  of   Malt 463 

With  Rue  My  Heart  Is  Laden 464 

Francis  Thompson   (1860-1907) 

The   Hound   of   Heaven 464 

To  a  Snowflake 468 

Arab  Love-Song 468 

Daisy         469 

Robinson  Kay  Leather 

Advice  to  a  Boy 470 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  (I860-        ) 

Recessional 471 

On  Epitaph  on  a  Husbandman 472 


CONTENTS  xix 

PAGE 

The    Cricket       r    .    t    .  473 

The  Frosted  Pane 473 

Justin  Huntley  McCarthy   (18G0-        ) 

To  Omar  Khayyam 473 

If  I  Were  King  (After  Villon)  .     .     .     ,     .     .     .     .  474 

Bliss  Carman  (1861-        ) 

Spring   Song 474 

Ballad  of  John  Camplejohn 475 

Envoy        477 

Katherine  Tynan  Hinkson  (1861-        ) 

The  Desire 477 

Sir  Owen   Seaman   (1861-        ) 

To  a  Boy-Poet  of  the  Decadence 478 

Maurice  Hewlett   (1861-        ) 

Flos  Virginnm 479 

Sir  Henry  Newbolt  (1862-        ) 

Drake's  Drum 480 

Messmates 480 

Arthur  Christopher  Benson  (1862-        ) 

Prelude 481 

Norman  Gale  (1862-        ) 

A  Love-Song 483 

A    Creed        482 

Victor  Plarr  (1863-        ) 

Epitaphium  Citharistn'se 483 

Rosamund  Marriott  Watson  (1863-        ) 

Requiescat 483 

Sir  Arthur  T.  Quiller-Couch   (1863-        ) 

The  Splendid  Spur 483 

Herbert  P.  Horne   (1864-        ) 

A  Song 484 

Upon  Returning  a  Silk  Handkerchief 484 

Sonnet 485 

William  Butler  Yeats   (1865-        ) 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree 485 

"When    You    Are    Old" 486 

The  Cap  and  Bells 486 

Arthur  Symons   (1865-        ) 

At  the   Stage-Door 487 

Asking  Forgiveness 488 

After  Love     .     .     .     » 489 

RuDYARD  Kipling  (1862-       ) 

Mandalay 489 

Danny  Deever 491 

Recessional          492 

The  Vampire,  as  Suggested  by  the  Painting  by  Philip 

Burne-Jones 492 


XX  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

'The  Story  of  Uriah" 493 

L'Envoi  494 

Herbert  Trench   (1865-        ) 

A  Charge 49fi 

"I   Heard  a  Soldier" 497 

Laurence   Hope    (pseud,    of   Adela    Nicolson)     (1865- 
1904) 
Ashore 497 

Lionel  Johnson   (1867-1902) 

Cadwith  498 

By  the  Statue  of  King  Charles  at  Charing  Cross   .      .     498 
The  Precept  of   Silence 500 

Ernest  Dowson   (1867-1900) 

Non  Sum   Qualis  Eram  Bonae  Sub  Regno  Cynarae   .     500 

Dregs         501 

Extreme   Unction  501 

"A.  E."  (pseud,  of  George  William  Russell)  (1867-      ) 

A  Memory  of  Earth 501 

The   Gift         502 

The  Burning-Glass 502 

Stephen  Phillips  (1868-1915) 

I   in  the  Greyness   Rose 503 

From    "Marpessa"         504 

From    "Herod"         505 

Laurence  Binvon  (1869-        ) 

"O    World,    Be    Nobler" 506 

Lord  Alfred  Douglas  (1870-        ) 
The  Dead   Poet 506 

Olive  Cu stance  (Lady  Alfred  Douglas) 
Oh!  Do  You  Hear  the  Rain 506 

DoLLiE  Radford 

I  Could  Not  Through  the  Burning  Day 507 

Thomas  Sturge  Moore  (1870-        ) 
A   Duet 507 

Hilaire  Belloc  (1870-        ) 
The    Early    Morning •.     .     .     508 

Col.  John  McCrae  (1872-1918) 
In   Flanders'    Fields 508 

Dora  Sigerson  Shorter  (1873-        ) 

Ireland 508 

Walter  De  La  Mare  (1873-        ) 

The  Listeners 509 

Queen    Djenira        510 

An    Epitaph         510 

John  Masefield  (1874-        ) 

Flesh,  I  Have  Knocked  at  Many  a  Dusty  Door  .      .511 

Ships 512 

Cargoes 515 


CONTENTS  xxi 

PAGE 

Sea-Fever 515 

Prayer 516 

Gordon  Bottomley   (1874-         ) 

In  Memoriam   (A.  M.  W.) 516 

Gilbert  Keith   Chesterton    (1874-        ) 

From  "The  Ballad  of  the  White  Horse" 517 

Glencoe 518 

Edward  Thomas  (1878-1917) 
The  Unknown       ....         519 

Thomas  MacDonagh   (1878-1916) 

To  His  Ideal    (Translated  from  the  Irish  of  Padraic 

Pearse)  519 

Wilfrid  Wilson   Gibson    (1878-        ) 
Daily   Bread        520 

Ralph  Hodgson  (1878?-        ) 

The   Mystery 520 

Harold  Monro  (1879-        ) 

Youth  in  Arms 521 

Alfred  Noyes   (1880-        ) 

Haunted  in  Old  Japan 521 

A  Japanese  Love-Song 522 

Francis  Ledwidge    (1881-1917) 

The   Wife   of   Llew 523 

Growing  Old 524 

John  Drinkwater  (1882-        ) 

A    Man's    Daughter 524 

Richard  AIiddleton   (1882-1911) 

To  A.  C.  M 525 

Heyst-Sur-Mer        526 

James  Joyce  (1882-        ) 

Golden    Hair 527 

W.  M.  Letts  (1882-        ) 

For  England's  Sake  Men  Give  Their  Lives  ....     527 
The  Spires  of  Oxford 528 

Lascelles  Abercrombie  (1884-        ) 

From    "Marriage    Song" 528 

Balkis,  from  "Emblems  of  Love" 530 

James  Elroy  Flecker  (1884-1915) 
To  a  Poet  a  Thousand  Years  Hence 531 

Rupert  Brooke  (1887-1915) 

The  Hill 532 

Peace         532 

The  Dead 532 

The    Soldier 533 

James  Stephens 

Deirdre 533 

The  Snare,  To  A.  E 534 


xxii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

D.  H.  Lawrence   (1885-        ) 

All   of  Roses 534 

Siegfried  Sassoon   (1886-        ) 

To  These  I  Turn,  in  These  I  Trust 536 

Richard  Aldington   (1892-        ) 

After  Two   Years 536 

Robert  Nichols   (1893-        ) 

The  Full  Heart 537 

Robert  Graves 

Not  Dead 537 

Index  of  First  Lines 539 

Index  of  Titles 553 


INTRODUCTION 

The  aim  of  this  collection  of  English  poetry  is 
simple.  It  is  merely  to  bring  together  as  much  of  the 
best  of  that  poetry  as  it  is  possible  to  include  in  one 
companionable  volume,  so  much  of  the  best  of  it,  in- 
deed, that  little  will  be  left  outside  these  covers.  What 
that  best  is  grows  less  and  less  a  matter  of  individual 
judgment.  Editorial  appraisers  of  this  great  in- 
heritance have  from  time  to  time  inspected  it  anew, 
and  have  here  and  there  made  trifling  corrections  in 
former  estimates.  Once  or  twice  even  they  have  done 
more.  A  poet  previously  undervalued  has  occasion- 
ally thus  come  into  his  own — as  Arthur  O  'Shaugnessy, 
for  example,  owing  to  Palgrave's  large  inclusions  of 
him  in  the  second  series  of  his  "Golden  Treasury." 
Once  in  our  time,  indeed,  a  poet  all  but  utterly  for- 
gotten has  been  rescued  from  the  poppy  of  oblivion, 
and  set  upon  a  high  lyric  throne.  Such  was  the  serv- 
ice Dr.  A.  H.  Bullen  did  for  Thomas  Campion,  whose 
lyrics  now  sweeten  so  many  pages  of  our  antholo- 
gies. But  you  will  look  for  his  name  in  vain  in  per- 
haps the  best  general  anthology  of  English  literature 
so  far  made — that  of  Robert  Chambers,  a  "eyclopffi- 
dia,"  which,  in  the  main,  eminently  illustrates  the 
old  truth  that  all  good  taste  and  judgment  and  schol- 
arship in  the  arts  are  not  confined  to  fashionable  liv- 
ing critics  and  editors. 

To  do  such  service  to  the  lovers  of  English  poetry 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

has  seldom  been  the  fortunate  opportunity  of  the 
anthologist.  In  the  main,  there  has  been  little  left 
for  him  but  to  confirm  the  judgment  of  his  predeces- 
sors— for  the  best  of  the  most  voluminous  poets  soon 
gets  itself  sifted  out.  There  is  not  likely,  for  instance, 
to  be  much  disagreement  in  a  jury  of  poetry-lovers  as 
to  the  immortal  and  the  perishable  parts  of  Words- 
worth, or  of  Shelley  or  of  Byron.  More  than  is  the 
case,  perhaps,  with  any  other  English  poets,  the  "col- 
lected works"  of  these  poets  contain  a  larger  propor- 
tion of  inert  matter,  banks  of  sand  in  which  the  most 
industrious  placer  miners  will  seek  in  vain  for  any 
appreciable  glitter  of  gold.  Occasionally  some  per- 
verse solitary  of  scholarship  will  arise  to  contest 
the  general  judgment  in  cases  of  this  kind,  and  pro- 
claim his  preference  for  those  productions  of  the  poet 
which  the  rest  of  the  world  finds  unreadable.  For  all 
that,  Byron's  epitaph  on  "The  Excursion"  will  re- 
main the  last  word  on  that  poem;  as  Carlyle's  epigram 
on  "Sordello"  will  be  recognized  as  generally  just,  if 
somewhat  rough  justice,  to  that  poem,  which  an  occa- 
sional glory  will  hardly  save  from  forgetfulness.  In 
the  same  way,  no  critical  trumpets  of  resurrection  can 
raise  Byron 's  dramas  from  the  grave ;  nor  the  most 
loyal  enthusiasm  for  Shelley  support  any  of  us  in  a 
re-reading  of  his  "Revolt  of  Islam."  The  same  ap- 
plies— alas !  to  have  to  say  it — to  Scott 's  ' '  Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  and  his  other  ballad-epics;  and  what  remains 
of  poor  Southey  save  that  one  sad  sonnet  of  his  lonely 
broken  mind?  To  that  his  pyramidal  productivity  is 
now  pathetically  sifted  down.  Yet  that  is  something, 
and  that  the  general  judgment  has  rescued  "My  Days 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

Among  the  Dead  Are  Past"  from  so  vast  a  mound  of 
forgotten  words  shows  how  difficult  it  is  for  the  most 
secluded  good  thing  to  escape  recognition. 

There  is  an  anthology  of  English  lyrics,  made  but 
a  short  time  ago  by  a  critic  whose  love  for  and  knowl- 
edge of  literature  are  alike  deep,  in  which  he  would 
seem  to  have  been  guided  by  that  crochetty  preference 
for  the  less  known  poems  of  the  various  poets  repre- 
sented to  which  I  have  referred.  The  effect,  there- 
fore, of  the  volume  is  very  curious.  While,  undoubt- 
edly, in  a  few  cases,  forgotten  or  less  remembered 
pieces  are  thus  serviceably  brought  back  to  mind,  those 
other  pieces  immortally  associated  with  the  names  of 
their  writers  are  hauntingly  absent.  So,  by  the 
way,  a  very  learned  and  famous  lady  omitted  Gray's 
"Elegy,"  of  deliberate  intent,  from  another  anthology 
conceived  in  a  similar  spirit  of  editorial  caprice.  Had 
the  other  editor  to  whom  I  am  referring  but  allowed 
his  critical  idiosyncrasy  to  carry  him  a  step  or  two 
further,  he  might  have  added  to  the  curiosities  of  liter- 
ature a  volume  which  might  well  have  borne  the  title 
of  "The  Worst  Poems  by  the  Best  Poets."  As  it  is, 
his  anthology,  for  the  most  part,  whimsically  gathers 
together  the  second  and  third  best  of  the  poets  he  un- 
doubtedly knows  and  loves :  possibly  a  service  to  their 
memory,  but  a  questionable  service  to  that  general 
reader  for  whom  the  volume  appears  to  have  been  de- 
signed. 

That  everyone  is  supposed  to  know  Milton's 
"Lycidas"  can  hardly  be  considered  a  reason  for  omit- 
ting it  from  a  representative  collection  of  English 
poetry.  Otherwise,  the  originality  of  an  anthology 
would  have  to  be  based  on  its  omissions,  as,  indeed, 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION 

that  might  be  said  to  be  the  only  basis  for  singularity 
left  to  the  present-day  anthologist.  Of  that  oppor- 
tunity I  have  not  in  the  present  collection  availed  my- 
self, but,  on  the  contrary,  being  of  the  opinion  that 
Time  is  the  most  trustworthy  of  all  anthologists,  the 
severest  critic  and  the  weightiest  authority  on  what 
is  best  worth  preserving  out  of  all  the  works  of  man, 
including  those  works  we  call  "poetical,"  I  have  been 
content,  in  the  main,  to  accept  his  judgments  and 
adopt  his  selections.  I  believe  that  what  has  been 
oftenest  read  in  the  past  w\\\  continue  to  be  oftenest 
read  in  the  future,  and,  though  this  may  be  an  unfash- 
ionable opinion  at  the  moment,  I  may  perhaps  point  to 
the  recent  renewal  of  enthusiasm  for  Greek  poetry  as 
something  in  favour  of  my  quaint  point  of  view. 
Therefore,  the  reader  will  probably  not  find  much  in 
this  volume  that  he  has  not  known  and  loved  before, 
though,  it  is,  doubtless,  impossible  but  that  the  editor's 
life-long  reading  of  poetry  has  not  in  some  degree 
swayed  his  choice  among  beautiful  things  so  often 
chosen  before,  and  has,  therefore,  given  to  this  col- 
lection a  certain  tinge  of  personal  preference.  His 
chief  solicitude  has  been,  however,  rather  than  that  the 
reader  should  find  novelties  in  this  collection,  that  he 
should  not  miss  too  many  of  the  old  perfections,  or 
sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  he  sought. 

One  of  the  most  distinguished  of  English  lyric 
poets,  who  happily  continues  to  escape  Westminster 
Abbey,  wrote  of  Tennyson's  poetry  as  being  "rich 
with  sweets  from  every  Muse's  hive."  The  phrase 
is  not  only  true  of  "The  Mantuan  of  our  age  and 
clime,"  but  it  might  -with  even  fuller  aptness  be  ap- 
plied to  English  poetry  as  a  whole,  from  Chancer  till 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

our  own  time.  Perhaps  no  poetry  has  borrowed  more 
from  the  poetry  of  other  races,  and  yet  the  poetry  of 
no  other  race  seems  so  distinctive  as  that  of  England. 
Never  was  there  such  an  example  of  literary  alchemy. 
How  much  that  English  poetry  which  seems  most 
English  owes  in  its  origin  to  France  and  Italy  is 
known  to  every  young  student  of  literature.  Even 
those  most  cherished  "wood-notes  wild"  of  Eliza- 
beth's day  are  surprisingly  indebted  to  England's 
"sweet  enemy  France."  The  debt  of  English  lyricism 
to  Ronsard  and  his  school  has  perhaps  not  been  suf- 
ficiently acknowledged,  while  English  indebtedness  to 
Italy  has  perhaps  been  over-emphasized.  But,  all  in- 
debtedness whatsoever  acknowledged,  the  curious  fact 
remains  that  the  final  result  is  something  that  has 
not  been  borrowed,  something  that  immensely,  so  to 
say,  over-pays  the  loan — or  theft.  Whatever,  for  ex- 
ample, Elizabethan  lyricism  may  have  owed  to  Rons- 
ard and  his  "Pleiade, "  however  much  those  "sweet 
influences  of  Pleiades"  may  have  originally  aerified 
and  heightened  the  English  lyric  art,  the  music  of 
England's  "Nest  of  Singing  Birds"  has  a  quality 
peculiarly  its  own.  What  is  it  that  is  in  "Under  the 
Greenwood  Tree"  that  has  never  been  found  in  the 
poetry  of  any  other  land?  It  seems  as  though  there 
had  been  a  peculiar  divine  sap  in  the  original  tree  of 
English  song,  which,  whatever  the  alien  grafts  made 
upon  it,  gave  to  the  blossom  a  beauty  at  once  starrier 
and  yet  more  earth-sweet,  as  though  star-light  and 
the  breath  of  hawthorn  in  English  country  lanes  had 
become  blended  together  in  words.  Even  in  such  re- 
mains of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  as  we  possess,  remote 


xxvlii  INTRODUCTION 

as  the  uneoiith  language  makes  them,  we  feel  the  pres- 
ence already  of  this  native  sweetness  exhaling  from 
strength — the  sweetness  hived  in  the  hearts  of  strong 
men.  However  great  the  mere  formal  or  themal 
influences  of  France  and  Italy  upon  English  poetry 
may  have  been,  they  seem  to  have  been  those  chiefly 
of  fashion  or  manner.  The  spirit  of  English  poetry 
has  been  entirely  different  from  theirs,  and  perhaps 
that  spirit  is  nearest  of  all  to  that  of  the  great  Latin 
poets,  with  their  large  accent,  their  noble  gravity  of 
mood,  and  such  sweetness  as  in  Catullus  reminds  one 
of  the  robust  sweetness  of  Shakespeare,  In  its  pre- 
eminent genius  for  the  elegy,  English  poetry  is  also 
akin,  to  the  Latin.  The  greatest  poems  in  English  are 
elegies,  or  spiritual,  philosophic  meditations,  elegiac 
in  their  mood.  But  these  also  are  pierced  with  that 
curious  English  sweetness  which  is  like  the  music  of 
the  spheres  combined  with  the  smell  of  apples.  Yes ! 
earth-sweetness,  spiritual  intensity,  elegiac  meditative- 
ness  are  the  main  qualities  of  English  poetry,  and 
perhaps  in  English  nature-poetry  we  find  them  com- 
bined in  their  highest  expression.  ''The  poetry  of 
earth  is  never  dead,"  and  English  earth,  and  the  Eng- 
lishman's love  of  it,  his  mystic  passion  for  it,  indeed,^ 
and  "reading"  of  it,  have  played  no  little  part,  .it  is 
evident,  in  the  making  of  English  song. 

But,  better  than  characterising  it,  analyzing  it,  or 
accounting  for  it,  is  merely  and  simply  to  enjoy  it — 
and  a  greater  or  more  lasting  treasure  of  enjoyment 
is  not  to  be  found  than  in  this  book  of  English  poetry. 
It  is  the  greatest  spiritual  inheritance  of  Englishmen, 
the  greatest  gift  of  England  to  the  world.    Whatever 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

its  special  qualities,  English  poetry  has  also  the  in- 
finite variety  and  freshness  of  nature  itself.  Mr. 
Kipling,  in  a  phrase  worth  a  multitude  of  critical  vol- 
umes, has  said: 

There  are  nine  and  sixty  ways 

Of  inditing  tribal  lays. 

And  every  blessed  one  of  them  is  right. 

Yes !  and  you  will  find  them  all  in  English  poetry,  find 
examples  of  them  all  in  this  book. 

It  remains  only  for  me  to  make  one  or  two  acknowl- 
edgments. My  indebtedness  to  Robert  Chambers' 
"Cyelopffidia  of  English  Literature"  is  recorded 
above ;  and  no  one  could  compile  a  collection  of  Eng- 
lish poetry,  since  their  appearance,  without  being 
under  great  obligations  to  Sir  Arthur  Quiller-Couch 
for  "The  Oxford  Book  of  Verse,"  and  to  Mr.  Burton 
E.  Stevenson  for  that  glorious  Leviathan  of  poetry, 
"The  Home  Book  of  Verse."  Other  anthologies  and 
collections  too  numerous  to  mention  have  assisted  me, 
particularly  Dr.  George  Saintsbury's  "Seventeenth 
Century  Lyrics,"  and,  of  course,  our  old  familiar 
friend  and  classic  in  this  kind,  Palgrave's  "Golden 
Treasury. ' ' 

I  wish  also  to  acknowledge  the  various,  generous 
assistance  given  me  by  my  friend,  Edwin  Justus 
Mayer. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne. 


THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF 
ENGLISH  VERSE 

KING  CNUT   (1017-1035) 

■jV/ffERRILY  sang  the  monkes  in  Ely 
■'••'■  When  Cnut  the  King  rowed  by; 
And  hear  ye  the  monkes'  song. 
Row,  knightes,  near  the  land. 

ANONYMOUS  (1250) 
Slimmer  Is  I-Comen  In 

CUMMER  is  i-comen  in, 

Loud  sing  cuckoo ; 
Groweth   seed   and   bloweth   mead, 
And  springeth  the  wood  anew. 

Sing  cuckoo ! 
Ewe  bleateth  after  lamb, 
Loweth  after  calfe  cow, 
Bullock  sterteth, 
Bucke  verteth, 
Merrie  sing  cuckoo ! 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo ; 
Well  thou  singest,  cuckoo  I 
Nor  cease  thou  never  now, 

LAYAMON  (i2th  or  13th  century) 

King  Arthur 

■Y\/"HEN  that  Arthur  was  King 

Hearken   now   a   marvelous   thing; 
He  was  liberal 
To  each  man  alive. 
Knight  with  the  best, 
Wond'rously  keen. 
He  was  to  the  young  for  father. 
To  the  old  for  comforter. 
And  with  the  unwise 
Wonderfully  stern. 

Wrong  was  to  him  exceeding  loathsome 
And  the  right  ever  dear. 
1 


2        THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  (1328-1400) 
Some  Characters  from  "The  Canterbury   Tales'' 

A  knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 

That  fro  the  time  that  he  first  began 
To  riden,  he  loved  chevalrie, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curtesie. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre ; 
And,  thereto,  hadde  he  ridden,  none  more  ferre, 
As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  in  Hethenessc, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse  .  .  . 
Though  that  he  was  worthy  he  was  wise ; 
And  of  his  past,  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde : 
He  never  j'et  no  vilainie  ne  sayde, 
In  all  his  lif,  unto  no  manere  wight. 
He  was  a  veray  parfit  gentil  knight.  .  .  . 
With  him,  ther  was  his  sone,  a  young  Squier, 
A  lover,  and  a  lusty  bacdeler ; 

With  lockcs  crull  as  they  were  laide  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yere  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe ; 
And  wonderly  deliver,  and  grete  of  strcngthe. 
And  he  hadde  be,  sometime,  in  chevachie 
In  Fiaunders,  in  Artois,  and  in  Picardie, 
And  borne  him  wel,  as  of  so  titel  space, 
In  hope  to  standen  in  his  ladies'  grace. 

Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 

All  full  of  frcshe  flowres,  white  and  rede. 

Singing  he  was,  or  floyting  all  the  day : 

He  was  as  freshe  as  is  the  moneth  of  May. 

Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  long  and  wide. 

Wel  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  fayre  ride, 

He  coude  songes  make,  and  wel  endite ; 

Juste  and  eke  dance ;  and  well  pourtraie  and  write : 

So  bote  he  loved,  that  by  nightestale 

He  slep  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale : 

Curteis  he  was,  lowly  and  servisablc ; 

And  carf  before  his  fader  at  the  table. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hire  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy; 
Hire  gretest  othe  n'as  but  by  Saint  Eloy; 
And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglentine. 
Ful  wel  she  sange  the  service  dcvine, 
Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  swetely; 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

And  Frcnche  she  spake  ful   fayre  and   fetisly, 

After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 

For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  nnknowe. 

At  mete  was  she  wele  ytaughte  withalle ; 

She  lette  no  morsel  from  her  Hppes  falle, 

Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 

Wei  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 

Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest. 

In  curtesie  was  sette  full  moche  hire  lest. 

Hire  over-lippe  wiped  she  so  clene, 

That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  fcrthing  sene 

Of  grese,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hire  draught. 

Ful  semely  after  hire  mete  she  raught. 

And  sickerly  she  was  of  grete  disport, 

And  ful  plesant,  and  amiable  of  port, 

And  peined  hire  to  contrefeten  chere 

Of  court,  and  ben  estatlich  of  manere, 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence  .  .  . 

Ful  semely  hire  wimple  ypinched  was ; 

Hire  nose  tretis ;  hire  eyen  grey  as  glas ; 

Hire  mouth  ful  smale,  and  thereto  soft  and  red ; 

But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fayre  forehed. 

It  was  almost  a  spaune  brode  I  trowe ; 

For  hardily  she  was  not  undergrowe. 

Full  fetise  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  ware. 

Of  smale  corall  about  hire  arm  she  bare 

A  pair  of  bedes,  gauded  all  with  grene ;  , 

And  thereon  heng  a  broche  of  gild  ful  shene, 

On  whiche  was  first  ywritten  a  crowned  A, 

And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

A  clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenforde  also, 
That  unto  logike  hadde  long  ygo. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake. 
And  he  was  not  right  fat  I  undertake ; 
But  looked  holwe,  and  thereto  soberly. 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overest  courtepy, 
For  he  hadde  geten  him  yet  no  benefice, 
He  was  nought  worldly  to  have  an  office. 
For  him  was  lever  han.  at  his  beddes  hed, 
Twenty  bokes  clothed  in  black  and  red, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophic, 
Than  robes  riche,  or  fidel.  or  sautrle; 
But  all  be  that  he  v/as  a  philosophre. 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre; 
But  all  that  he  might  of  his  frendes  hente, 
On  bokes  and  on  lerning  he  it  spente ; 
And  besily  gan  for  the  soules  praie 


THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Of  hem  that  gave  him  wherwith  to  scolaie. 
Of  studie  toke  he  most  care  and  hede. 
Not  a  word  spake  he  more  than  was  nede ; 
And  that  was  said  in   forme  and  reverence, 
And  short  and  quike,  and  full  of  high  sentence: 
Souning  in  moral  vertue  was  his  speche ; 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 


From  "The  Dream" 

A  ND  right  anon   as   I  the  day  espied. 
No  longer  would  I  in  my  bed  abide, 
I  went  forth  myself  alone  and  boldel}', 
And  held  the  way  down  by  a  brook  side. 
Till  I  came  to  a  land  of  white  and  green. 
So  fair  a  one  had  I  never  in  been. 
The  ground  was  green  y-powdered  with  daisy. 
The  flowers  and  the  groves  alike  high, 
All  green  and  white  was  nothing  else  seen. 

The  Complaint  to  His  Empty  Purse 

'X'O  you,  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight 

Complain  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dear ! 
I  am  so  sorrow,  now  that  ye  be  light ; 
For  certes,  but  ye  make  me  heavy  cheer, 
Me  were  as  lief  be  laid  upon  my  bier; 
For  which  unto  your  mercy  thus  I  cry: 
Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  might  I  die ! 

Now  voucheth  safe  this  day,  or  it  be  night, 
That  I  of  3'ou  the  blissful  sound  may  hear, 
Or  see  j'our  colour  like  the  sun  bright 
That  of  yellowness  had  never  a  peer. 
Ye  be  my  life,  ye  be  my  hertes  stere. 
Queen  of  comfort  and  of  good  company: 
Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  might  I  die ! 

Now  purse,  that  be  to  me  my  life's  light. 

And  saviour,  as  down  in  this  world  here. 

Out  of  this  toune  help  me  through  your  might. 

Since  that  ye  wole  not  be  my  treasurer ; 

For  I  am  shaved  as  nigh  as  any  frere. 

But  yet  I  pray  unto  your  courtesy 

Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  might  I  die ! 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

O  Conqueror  of  Brute's  Albion 
Which  that  by  line  and  free  election 
Be  very  king,  this  song  to  3'ou  I  send ; 
And  ye,  that  mighten  all  our  harm  amend, 
Have  mind  upon  my  supplication ! 


Merciles  Beaiite 
{A  Triple  Roundel) 

I.    CAPTIVITY 

"Y'OUR  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenij% 
I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene, 

So  woundeth  hit  through-out  my  herte  kene. 

And  but  your  word  wol  helen  hastily 

My  hertes  wounde,  whyl  that  hit  is  grene. 
Your  eyen  two  wol  sice  me  sodenly, 
I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene. 

Upon  my  trouthe  I  sey  yow  feithfully, 
That  ye  ben  of  my  13'^f  and  deeth  the  queue; 
For  with  my  deeth  the  trouthe  shal  be  sene. 
Your  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly, 
I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene. 
So  woundeth  hit  through-out  my  herte  kene. 


2.   REJECTION 

So  hath  3*our  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne ; 
For  Daunger  halt  3^our  mercy  in  his  cheyne. 

Giltles  my  deeth  thus  han  ye  me  purchaced ; 
I  sey  yow  sooth,  me  nedeth  not  to  feyne ; 
So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne. 
Alias !  that  nature  hath  in  yow  compassed 
So  great  beaute,  that  no  man  may  atteyne 
To  mercy,  though  he  sterve  for  the  peyne. 
So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne ; 
For  Daunger  halt  your  mercy  in  his  cheyne. 

halt]  holdeth. 


6        THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

3.   ESCAPE 

Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 
I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene; 
Sin  I  am  free,  I  counte  him  not  a  bene. 
He  may  answere  and  seye  this  or  that 
I  do  no  fors,  I  spcke  right  as  I  mcne, 
Sin  I   fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 
I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene. 

Love  hath  my  name  y-strike  out  of  his  sclat 
And  he  is  strike  out  of  my  bokes  clene 
For  ever-mo ;  ther  is  non  other  mene. 
Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 
I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene ; 
Sin  I  am  free,  I  counte  him  not  a  bene. 


Written  on  His  Deathbed 


ipLY  from  the  press,  and  dwell  with  sothfastness; 

Suffice  unto  thy  good,  though  it  be  small ; 
For  hoard  hath  hate,  and  climbing  fickleness, 
Press  hath  envy,  and  weal  is  blent  o'er  all ; 
Savour  no  more  than  thee  beloven  shall ; 
Rede  well  thyself,  that  other  folk  can'st  rede, 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver  'tis  no  dredo. 


Pain  thee  not  each  crooked  to  redress, 
In  trust  of  her  that  turneth  as  a  ball ; 
Great  rest  standcth  in  little  business ; 
Beware  also  to  spurn  against  a  nalle ; 
Strive  not  as  doth  a  crocke  with  a  wall ; 
Deemeth  thyself  that  deemest  other's  deed, 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver  'tis  no  drede. 
That  thee  is  sent  receive  in  bnxomness ; 
The  wrestling  of  this  world  askcth  a  fall; 
Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wilderness ; 
Forth,  pilgrim,  forth,  O  beast  out  of  thy  stall; 
Look  up  on  high,  and  thank  thy  God  of  all ; 
Waiveth  thy  lust  and  let  thy  ghost  thee  lead, 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver  'tis  no  drede. 


JAMES  I  OF  SCOTLAND 

JAMES  I  OF  SCOTLAND   (i395-i437) 

From  "The  Kind's  Qiihair" 

TJEWAILING   in   my   chamber,    thus    alone, 

Despairing  of  all  joy  and  remedy, 
For-tired  of  my  thought,  and  woe-begone, 
And  to  the  window  gan  I  walk  in  by 
To  see  the  world  and  folk  that  went  forebye, 
As,  for  the  time,  though  I  of  mirthis  food 
Might  have  no  more,  to  look  it  did  me  good. 

Now  was  there  made,  fast  by  the  town's  wall, 

A  garden  fair ;  and  in  the  corners  set 

Ane  arbour  green,  with  wandis  long  and  small 

Railed  about,  and  so  with  trees  set 

Was  all  this  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet, 

That  lyf  was  none  walking  there  forbye. 

That  might  within  scarce  any  might  espy 

So  thick  the  boughis  and  the  leavis  green 

Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  mids  of  every  arbour  might  be  seen 

The  sharpe  greene  sweete  juniper, 

Growing  so  fair  with  branches  here  and  there, 

That  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without, 

The  boughis  spread  the  arbour  all  about. 

And  on  the  smalle  greene  twistis  sat, 
The  little  sweete  nightingale,  and  sung 
So  loud  and  clear,  the  hymnis  consecrat 
Of  love's  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 
That  all  the  gardens  and  the  wallis  rung 
Right  of  their  song  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Cast  I  down  mine  eyes  again, 

Where  as  I  saw,  walking  imder  the  tower, 

Full  secretly,  new  comen  here  to  plain. 

The  fairest  or  the  freshest  younge   flower 

That  ever  I  saw,  methought,  before  that  hour, 

For  which  sudden  abate,  anon  astart. 

The  blood  of  all  my  body  to  my  heart. 

And  though  I  stood  abasit  tho  a  lite, 
No  wonder  was;  for  why?  my  wittis  all 
Were  so  overcome  with  pleasure  and  delight, 
Only  through  letting  of  my  eyen  fall, 
That  suddenly  my  heart  became  her  thrall, 


8        THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

For  ever  of  free  will, — for  of  menace 
There  was  no  token  in  her  sweete  face. 

And  in  my  head  I  drew  right  hastily, 
And  eftesoons  I  leant  it  out  again, 
And  saw  her  walk  that  very  womanly, 
With  no  wight  mo',  but  only  women  twain. 
Then  gan  I  study  in  myself,  and  sayn, 
"Ah,  sweet !  are  ye  a  worldly  creature. 
Or  heavenly  thing  in  likeness  of  nature?" 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR  (1460-1521) 

(\  reverend  Chaucer !  rose  of  rhetoris  all, 
^'^  As  in  our  tongue  ane  flower  imperial. 
That  raise  in  Britain  ever,  who  reads  right, 
Thou  bears  of  makaris  the  triumph  riall, 
Thy  fresh  enamelled  terms  celicall : 
This  matter  could  illumined  have  full  bright. 
Was  thou  not  of  our  English  all  the  light. 
Surmounting  every  tongue  terrestrial. 
As  far  as  Mayis  morrow  does  midnight. 

STEPHEN  HAWES  ( 1523) 

His  Epitaph 

f\  mortal  folk,  j-ou  may  behold  and  see 

^'^  How  I  lie  here,  sometime  a  mighty  knight 

The  end  of  joy  and  all  prosperitee 

Is  death  at  last,  thorough  his  course  and  might: 
After  the  day  there  cometh  the  dark  night. 
For  though  the  daye  be  never  so  long, 
At  last  the  bells  ringeth  to  evensong. 

JOHN  SKELTON   (1460-1529) 

To  Mistress  Margery  Wentworth 

lyi  ERRY  Margaret, 

As   midsummer   flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon. 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 
With   solace   and   gladness, 
Much   mirth   and  no  madness, 
All  good   and  no  badness; 
So  joyously. 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

So  maidenly, 

So   womanly, 

Her  demeaning, 

In  everything, 

Far,  far  passing 

That  I  can  indite, 

Or  suffice  to  write, 

Of  merry  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon. 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower; 

As  patient  and  as  still. 

And  as  full  of  goodwill, 

As  fair  Isiphil, 

Coliander, 

Sweet  Pomander, 

Good  Cassander ; 

Stedfast  of  thought, 

Well  made,  well  wrought, 

Far  may  be  sought. 

Ere  you  can  find 

So  courteous,  so  kind. 

As  merry  Margaret, 

This  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle   as   falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 

SIR  THOMAS  WYATT   (1503-1542) 
My  Lute,  Awake 

Tl^Y  lute,  awake,  perform  the  last 

Labour   that  thou    and    I   shall   waste, 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun. 
And,  when  this  song  is  sung  and  past, 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  donel 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none. 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone. 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon : 
Should  we,  then,  sigh  or  sing  or  moan? 
No,  no,  my  lute,  for  I  have  done ! 

The  rocks  do  not  so  cruelly 
Repulse  the  waves  continually. 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection : 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy : 
Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  donel 


10      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts  thorough  Love's  shot, 
By  wliom  unkind  thou  hast  them  won, 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot, 
Ahhough  my  hite  and  I  have  done  1 

Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain,  ^ 
That  mak'st  but  game  of  earnest  pain, 
Trow  not  alone  under  the  sun  ^ 
Unquit  to  cause  thy  lover's  plain. 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute,  this  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  ended  is  that  we  begun : 
Now  is  this  song  both  sung  and  past — 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY  (1517-1547) 
Sinnmer  Is  Come 

'T'HE  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale. 

The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 

The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 

Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs. 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale; 

The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  slings; 

The  fishes  flit  with  new  repaired  scale ; 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings; 

The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale; 

The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings ; 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs  I 


RICHARD   EDWARDES    (1523-1566) 

Amantium  Ira 

TN  going  to  my  naked  bed,  as  one  that  would  have  slept. 
■■■  I  heard  a  wife  sing  to  her  child,  that  long  before  had  wept. 
She  sighed  sore,  and  sang  full  sweet,  to  bring  the  babe  to  rest, 
That  would  not  cease,  but  cried  still,  in  sucking  at  her  breast. 
She  was  full  weary  of  her  watch,  and  grieved  with  her  child; 
She  rocked  it,  and  rated  it,  until  on  her  it  smiled  ; 


QUEEN  ELIZABETH  11 

Then  did  she  say:  "Now  have  I  found  the  proverb  true  to 

prove, 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renezving  is  of  love." 

Then  took  I  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  this  proverb  for  to  vi^rite, 

In  register  for  to  remain  of  such  a  w^orthy  wight. 

As  she  proceeded  thus  in  song  unto  her  little  brat. 

Much  matter  uttered  she  of  weight  in  place  whereas  she  sat; 

And  proved  plain,  there  was  no  beast,  nor  creature  bearing 

life, 
Could   well  be  known  to   live   in   love   without   discord   and 

strife: 
Then  kissed  she  her  little  babe,  and  sware  by  God  above, 
"The  falling  otit  of  faithful  friends  renezving  is  of  love." 

"1  marvel  much,  pardie,"  quoth  she,  "for  to  behold  the  rout. 
To  see  man,  woman,  boy  and  beast,  to  toss  the  world  about ; 
Some  kneel,  some  crouch,  some  beck,  some  check,  and  some 

can  smoothly  smile, 
And  some  embrace  others  in  arms,  and  there  think  many  a 

wile. 
Some  stand  aloof  at  cap  and  knee,  some  humble,  and  some 

stout, 
Yet  are  they  never  friends  indeed  until  they  once  fall  out." 
Thus  ended  she  her  song,  and  said,  before  she  did  remove: 
"The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renezving  is  of  love." 

QUEEN  ELIZABETH   (1533-1603) 
The  Doubt 

T^HE  doubt  of  future  foes 
Exiles  my  present  joy, 
And  wit  me  warns  to  shun  such  snares 
As  threatens  mine  annoy. 

For  fastened  now  doth  flow, 
And  subject  faith  doth  ebb. 
Which  would  not  be  if  reason  ruled, 
Or  wisdom  weaved  the  web. 

But  clouds  of  toys  untried 
Do  cloak  aspiring  minds. 
Which  turn  to  rain  of  late  repent. 
By  course  of  changed  winds. 

The  top  of  hope  supposed 
The  root  of  truth  will  be. 


12      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

And  fruitless  all  their  graffed  guiles, 
As  shortly  ye  shall  see. 

Then  dazzled  eyes  with  pride. 
Which  great  ambition  blinds, 
Shall  be  unsealed  by  worthy  wights, 
Whose  foresight  falsehood  finds. 

The  daughter  of  debate 
That  eke  discord  doth  sow, 
Shall  reap  no  gain  where  former  rule 
Hath  taught  still  peace  to  grow. 

No   foreign  banished  wight 
Shall  anchor  in  this  port; 
Our  realm  it  brooks  no  stranger's  force; 
Let  them  elsewhere  resort. 

Our  rusty  sword  with  rest 
Shall  first  his  edge  employ. 
To  pall  their  tops  that  seek  such  change 
And  gape  for  future  joy. 


JOHN  STILL,  BISHOP  OF  BATH  AND  WELLS 
(1543- I 608) 

Jolly  Good  Ale  and  Old 

From  "Gammer  Gurton's  Needle" 

¥  cannot  eat  but  little  meat. 

My  stomach  is  not  good ; 
But  sure  I  think  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a-cold ; 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare; 

Botli  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 

But.  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast. 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead; 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 


NICOLAS  BRETON  13 

No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold ; 
I  am  so  wrapped  and  thoroughly  lapped 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

And  Tib,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 
Full  oft  drinks  she  till  ye  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek: 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl 

Even  as  a  maltworm  should. 
And  saith,  "Sweetheart,  I  took  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old." 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do ; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to ; 
And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured  bowls 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolled, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 
Whether  they  be  young  or  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare ; 
Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 


NICOLAS    BRETON     (i545?-i626?) 
A  Cradle  Song 

/^OME  little  babe,  come  silly  soul, 

Thy  father's  shame,  thy  mother's  grief, 

Born  as  I  doubt  to  all  our  dole. 

And  to  thyself  unhappy  chief: 
Sing  lullaby,  and  lap  it  warm, 
Poor  soul  that  thinks  no  creature  harm. 

Thou  little  think'st  and  less  dost  know 
The  cause  of  this  thy  mother's  moan; 
Thou  want'st  the  wit  to  wail  her  woe, 
And  I  myself  am  all  alone : 

Why  dost  thou  weep?  why  dost  thou  wail? 

And  know'st  not  yet  what  thou  dost  ail. 

Come,  little  wretch — ah,  silly  heart! 
Mine  only  joy,  what  can  I  more? 
If  there  be  any  wrong  thy  smart. 


14      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

That  may  the  destinies  implore: 
'Twas  I,  1  say,  against  my  will, 
I  wail  the  time,  but  be  thou  still. 

And  dost  thou  smile?     O,  thy  sweet  face! 
Would  God  Himself  He  might  thee  see! — 
No  doubt  thou  wouldst  soon  purchase  grace, 
I  know  right  well,  for  thee  and  me : 

But  come  to  mother,  babe,  and  play, 

For  father  false  is  fled  away. 

Sweet  boy,  if  it  by  fortune  chance 
Thy  father  home  again  to  send, 
If  death  do  strike  me  with  his  lance. 
Yet  may'st  thou  me  to  him  commend : 
If  any  ask  thy  mother's  name, 
Tell  how  by  love  she  purchased  blame. 

Then  will  his  gentle  heart  soon  yield : 

I  know  him  of  a  noble  mind : 

Although  a  lion  in  the  field, 

A  lamb  in  town  thou  shalt  him  find : 
Ask  blessing,  babe,  be  not  afraid. 
His  sugared  words  hath  me  betrayed. 

Then  may'st  thou  joy  and  be  right  glad; 
Although  in  woe  I  seem  to  moan. 
Thy  father  is  no  rascal  lad, 
A  noble  youth  of  blood  and  bone : 

His  glancing  looks,  if  he  once  smile, 

Right  honest  women  may  beguile. 

Come,  little  boy,  and  rock  asleep; 
Sing  lullaby  and  be  thou  still ; 
I,  that  can  do  naught  else  but  weep, 
Will  sit  by  thee  and  wail  my  fill : 

God  bless  my  babe,  and  lullaby 

From  this  thy  father's  quality. 


SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH    (i552?-i6i8) 
The  Faerie  Queen 

{To  Spenser) 

■Ji/fETHOUGHT  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay, 
■'•       Within  that  temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn :  and,  passing  by  that  way 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH  15 

To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  flame, 
Whose  tomb  fair  love  and  fairer  Virtue  kept, 

All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faerie  Queen, 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept; 

And  from  henceforth  those  graces  were  not  seen. 
For  they  this  Queen  attended ;  in  whose  stead 

Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 
Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 

And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  pierce: 
Where  Homer's  spright  did  tremble  all  for  grief, 

And  curse  the  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 

His  Pilgrimage 

^^IVE  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 

My  staflf  of  faith  to  walk  upon, 
My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet. 

My  bottle  of  salvation. 
My  gov/n  of  glory,  hope's  true  gage; 
And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage. 

Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer. 

No  other  balm  will  there  be  given ; 

Whilst  my  soul,  like  quiet  palmer, 

Traveleth  towards  the  land  of  Heaven; 

Over  the  silver  mountains 

Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains: 

There  will  I  kiss 

The  bowl  of  bliss. 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill. 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before ; 
But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 

Then  by  that  happy,  blissful  day, 
More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see, 
That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 
And  walk  appareled  fresh  like  me. 

I'll  take  them  first 

To  quench  their  thirst, 
And  taste  of  nectar's  suckets 

At  those  clear  wells 

Where  sweetness  dwells 
Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets. 
And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 
Are  filled  with  immortality. 
Then  the  blessed  paths  we'll  travel, 
Strowed  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel; — 
Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors. 


16      THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers. 

From  thence  to  Heaven's  bribeless  hall, 

Where  no  corrupted  voices  brawl ; 

No  conscience  molten  into  gold, 

No  forged  accuser  bought  or  sold. 

No  cause  deferred,  no  vain-spent  journey, 

For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  Attorney, 

Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees, 

And  He  hath  angels,  but  no  fees. 

And  when  the  grand  twelve-million  jury 

Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury, 

Against  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 

Christ  pleads  His  death,  and  then  we  live. 

Be  Thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader, 

Unblotted  lawyer,  true  proceeder ! 

Thou  giv'st   salvation   even    for  alms ; 

Not  with  a  bribed  lawyer's  palms. 

And  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 

To  Him  that  made  heaven,  earth,  and  sea, 

That,  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon, 

And  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon. 

Just  at  the  stroke,  when  my  veins  start  and  spread, 

Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head ! 

Then  am  I  ready,  like  a  palmer,  fit 

To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  I  writ. 

O  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell. 
Who  oft  doth  think,   must   needs   die   well. 


The  Conclusion 


E 


VEN  such  is  Time,  that  takes  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have. 
And  paA^s  us  but  with  earth  and  dust; 

Who  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days  ; 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  will  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 

Thomas  the  Rhymer 

'^RUE  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank; 

A  ferlie  he  spied  wi'  his  e'e ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  lady  bright. 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  Tree. 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  17 

Her  skirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk, 

Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fine ; 
At  ilka  tett  o'  her  horse's  mane 

Hung  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine. 

True  Thomas  he  pu'd  afif  his  cap. 

And  louted  low  down  on  his  knee : 
"Hail  to  thee,  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven! 

For  thy  peer  on  earth  could  never  be." 

"O  no,  O  no,  Thomas !"  she  said, 

"That  name  does  not  belang  to  me; 
I'm  but  the  Queen  o'  fair  Elfland, 

That  am  hither  come  to  visit  thee. 

"Harp  and  carp,  Thomas !"  she  said, 

"Harp  and  carp  along  wi'  me ; 
And  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips. 

Sure  of  your  body  I  will  be." 

"Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 

That  weird  shall  never  daunten  me." 
Syne  he  has  kissed  her  rosy  lips. 

All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree, 

"Now,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me,"  she  said ; 

"True  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me ; 
\nd  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years, 

Through  weal  or  woe  as  may  chance  be." 

She's  mounted  on  her  milk-white  steed ; 

She's  ta'en  true  Thomas  up  behind ; 
And  aye,  whene'er  her  bridle  rang, 

The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind. 

O  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on. 
The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind ; 

Until  they  reached  a  desert  wide. 
And  living  land  was  left  behind. 

"Light  down,  light  down  now,  true  Thomas, 

And  lean  your  head  upon  my  knee ; 
Abide  ye  there  a  little  space, 

And  I  will  show  you  ferlies  three. 

"O  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road, 

So  thick  beset  wi'  thorns  and  briers? 

That  is  the  Path  of  Righteousness, 
Though  after  it  but  few  inquires. 


18      THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH   VERSE 

"And  see  ye  not  yon  braid,  braid  road, 

That  lies  across  the  lily  Icven? 
That  is  the  Path  of  Wickedness, 

Though  some  call  it  the  Road  to  Heaven. 

"And  see  yet  not  yon  bonny  road, 

That  winds  about  the  fcrnie  brae? 
That  is  the  Road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  thou  and  I  this  night  maun  gae. 


"But,  Thomas,  ye  sail  baud  your  tongue, 

Whatever  ye  may  hear  or  see ; 
For  speak  ye  word  in  Elfyn-land, 

Ye'll  ne'er  win  back  to  your  ain  countrie.'* 

0  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on, 

And  they  waded  rivers  abune  the  knee ; 
And  they  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon. 
But  they  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

It  was  mirk,  mirk  night,  there  was  nae  starlight, 
They  waded  through  red  blude  to  the  knee ; 

For  a'  the  blude  that's  shed  on  earth 
Rins  through  the  springs  o'  that  countrie. 

Syne  they  came  to  a  garden  green. 
And  she  pu'd  an  apple  f  rae  a  tree : 

"Take  this  for  thy  wages,  true  Thomas; 
It  will  give  thee  tongue  that  can  never  lee." 

"My  tongue  is  mine  ain,"  true  Thomas,  he  said; 
"A  gudely  gift  ye  wad  gie  to  me! 

1  neither  dought  to  buy  nor  sell. 
At  fair  or  tryst  where  I  might  be. 


"I  dought  neither  speak  to  prince  or  peer, 
Nor  ask  of  grace  from  fair  lady!" 

"Now  baud  thy  peace !"  the  lady  said, 
"For  as  I  say,  so  must  it  be." 


He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth. 
And  a  pair  o'  shoon  of  the  velvet  green; 

And  till  seven  years  were  gane  and  past, 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  19 

Helen  of  Klrconnell 

T  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me ! 

0  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 

When  my  Love  dropp'd  and  spak  nae  mair  I 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  meikle  care. 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  the  water  side. 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ; 

1  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare! 
I'll  mak  a  garland  o'  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair. 
Until  the  day  I  die ! 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies  I 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  "Haste,  and  come  to  me  1" 

0  Helen  fair!  O  Helen  chaste! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I'd  be  blest. 
Where  thou  lits  low  and  taks  thy  rest, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  'lea. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  owre  my  e'en, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 


20      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


Waly,  Waly 


Owaly,  waly,  up  the  bank. 
And  waly,  waly,  doun  the  brae, 
And  waly,  waly,  yon  burn-side. 

Where  I  and  my  Love  wont  to  gae  I 
I  lean'd  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thocht  it  was  a  trustie  tree ; 
But  first  it  bow'd  and  syne  it  brak — 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lichtlie  me. 


O  waly,  waly,  gin  love  be  bonnie 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new! 
But  when  'tis  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  awa'  like  morning  dew. 
O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  heid, 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  Love  has  me  forsook. 

And  says  he'll  never  lo'e  me  mair. 


Now  Arthur's  Seat  sail  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  sail  ne'er  be  'filed  by  me; 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink; 

Since  my  true  Love  has  forsaken  me. 
Marti'mas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw. 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  aff  the  tree? 
O  gentle  Death,  when  wilt  thou  come? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 

'Tis  not  the  frost,  that  freezes  fell. 

Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie, 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry; 

But  my  Love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  cam  in  by  Glasgow  toun. 

We  were  a  comely  sicht  to  see ; 
My  Love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

And  I  mysel  in  cramasie. 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  21 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kist, 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win, 
I  had  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  o'  gowd, 

And  pinn'd  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 
And  O!  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee ; 
And  I  mysel  were  dead  andgane, 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  met 

Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty 

TN  Scarlet  town,  where  I  was  born, 
There  was  a  fair  maid  dwellin'. 
Made  every  youth  cry  IVell-a-way! 
Her  name  was  Barbara  Allen. 

All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  they  were  swellin', 
Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay, 

For  love  of  Barbara  Allen. 

He  sent  his  man  in  to  her  then, 
To  the  town  where  she  was  dwellin*, 

"O  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
"If  your  name  be  Barbara  Allen." 

So  slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up, 

And  slowly  she  came  nigh  him, 
And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by — 

'Young  man,  I  think  you're  dyin'.' 

"O  it's  I  am  sick  and  very  very  sick, 

And  it's  all  for  Barbara  Allen." 
"O  the  better  for  me  ye'se  never  be, 

Tho'  your  heart's  blood  were  a-spillin' !" 

"O  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,"  saj's  she, 

"When  the  red  wine  ye  were  fillin', 
That  ye  made  the  healths  go  round  and  round, 

And  slighted  Barbara  Allen?" 

He  turn'd  his  face  unto  the  wall. 

And  death  was  with  him  dealin': 
"Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  all. 

And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allen !" 

As  she  was  walking  o'er  the  fields. 

She  heard  the  dead-bell  knellin'; 
And  every  jow  the  dead-bell  gave 

Cried  "Woe  to  Barbara  Allen." 


22      THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

"O  mother,  mother,  make  my  bed, 

O  make  it  saft  and  narrow: 
My  love  has  died  for  me  to-day, 

I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow. 

"Farewell,"  she  said,  "ye  virgins  all, 

And  shun  the  fault  I  fell  in : 
Henceforth  take  warning  by  the  fall 

Of  cruel  Barbara  Allen." 


PhlUada  Flouts  Me 

C\  what  a  plague  is  love ! 
^^  How  shall  I  bear  it? 
She  will  inconstant  prove, 

I  greatly  fear  it. 
She  so  torments  my  mind 

That  my  strength  faileth. 
And  wavers  with  the  wind 

As  a  ship  saileth. 
Please  her  the  best  I  may, 
She  loves  still  to  gainsay; 
Alack  and  well-a-day! 

■Phillada  flouts  me. 

At  the  fair  yesterday 

She  did  pass  by  me; 
She  look'd  another  way 

And  would  not  spy  me: 
I  woo'd  her  for  to  dine. 

But  could  not  get  her; 
Will  had  her  to  the  wine — 

He  might  entreat  her. 
With  Daniel  she  did  dance. 
On  me  she  look'd  askance : 

0  thrice  unhappy  chance! 
Phillada  flouts  me. 

Fair  maid,  be  not  so  coy, 
Do  not  disdain  me! 

1  am  my  mother's  joy: 
Sweet,  entertain  me ! 

She'll  give  me,  when  she  dies. 

All  that  is  fitting: 
Her  poultry  and  her  bees. 

And  her  goose  sitting, 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  23 

A  pair  of  mattrass  beds, 
And  a  bap:  full  of  shreds ; 
And  yet,  for  all  this  guedes, 
Phillada  flouts  me  1 

She  hath  a  clout  of  mine 

Wrought  with  blue  Coventry, 
Which  she  keeps  for  a  sign 

Of  my  fidelity: 
But  i'  faith,  if  she  flinch 

She  shall  not  wear  it ; 
To  Tib.  my  t'other  wench, 

I  mean  to  bear  it. 
And  yet  it  grieves  my  heart 
So  soon  from  her  to  part: 
Death  strike  me  with  his  dart! 

Phillada  flouts  me. 

Thou  shalt  eat  crudded  cream 

All  the  year  lasting, 
And  drink  the  crystal  stream 

Pleasant  in  tasting; 
Whig  and  whey  whilst  thou  lust. 

And  bramble-berries. 
Pie-lid  and  pastry-crust, 

Pears,  plums,   and  cherries. 
Thy  raiment  shall  be  thin, 
Made  of  a  weevil's  skin — 
Yet  all's  not  worth  a  pin  1 

Phillada  flouts  me. 

In  the  last  month  of  May 

I  made  her  posies ; 
I  heard  her  often  say 

That  she  loved  roses. 
Cowslips  and  gillyflowers 

And  the  white  lily 
I  brought  to  deck  the  bowers 

For  my   sweet   Philly. 
But  she  did  all  disdain. 
And  tbrew  them  back  again; 
Therefore  'tis  flat  and  plain 

Phillada  flouts  me. 

Fair  maiden,  have  a  care. 

And  in  time  take  me ; 
I  can  have  those  as  fair 

If  you  forsake  me : 
For  IDoll  the  dairy-maid 

Laugh'd  at  me  lately. 


24      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

And  wanton  Winifred 

Favours  me  fjreatly. 
One  throws  milk  on  my  clothes, 
T'other  plays  with  my  nose ; 
What  wanting:  signs  are  those? 

Phillada  flouts  me. 

I  cannot  work  nor  sleep 

At  all  in  season : 
Love  wounds  my  heart  so  deep 

Without  all  reason. 
I  'gin  to  pine  away 

in  my  love's  shadow, 
Like  as  a  fat  beast  may, 

Penn'd  in  a  meadow. 
I  shall  be  dead,  I  fear, 
Within  this  thousand  year: 
And  all  for  that  my  dear 

Phillada  flouts  me. 


Clerk  Saunders 


#^LERK  Saunders  and  may  Margaret 

Walk'd  owre  yon  garden  green ; 
And  deep  and  heavy  was  the  love 
That  fell  thir  twa  between. 

"A  bed,  a  bed,"  Clerk  Saunders  said, 

"A  bed  for  you  and  me !" 
"Eye  na,  fye  na,"  said  may  Margaret, 

"Till  anes  we  married  be !" 

"Then  I'll  take  the  sword  frae  my  scabbard 

And  slowly  lift  the  pin ; 
And  you  may  swear,  and  save  your  aith, 

Ye  ne'er  let  Clerk  Saunders  in. 

"Take  you  a  napkin  in  your  hand. 
And  tie  up  baith  your  bonnie  e'en. 

And  you  may  swear,  and  save  your  aith, 
Ye  saw  me  na  since  late  yestreen." 

It  was  about  the  midnight  hour. 

When  they  asleep  were  laid, 
When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  burning  red: 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  25 

When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  burning  bright : 
They  said.  "We  hae  but  one  sister, 

And  behold  her  lying  with  a  knight  I" 

Then  out  and  spake  the  first  o'  them, 

"I  bear  the  sword  shall  gar  him  die." 
And  out  and  spake  the  second  o'  them, 

"His  father  has  nae  mair  but  he." 

And  out  and  spake  the  third  o'  them, 

"I  wot  that  they  are  lovers  dear." 
And  out  and  spake  the  fourth  o'  them, 

"They  hae  been  in  love  this  mony  a  year." 

Then  out  and  spake  the  fifth  o'  them, 
"It  were  great  sin  true  love  to  twain." 

And  out  and  spake  the  sixth  o'  them, 

"It  were  shame  to  slay  a  sleeping  man." 

Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them. 

And  never  a  word  spake  he ; 
But  he  has  striped  his  bright  brown  brand 

Out  through  Clerk  Saunders'  fair  bodye. 

Clerk  Saunders  he  started,  and  Margaret  she  turn'd 

Into  his  arms  as  asleep  she  lay; 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  night 

That  was  atween  thir  twae. 

And  they  lay  still  and  sleepit  sound 

Until  the  day  began  to  daw' ; 
And  kindly  she  to  him  did  say, 

"It  is  time,  true  love,  you  were  awa'." 

But  he  lay  still,  and  sleepit  sound. 

Albeit  the  sun  began  to  sheen ; 
She  look'd  atween  her  and  the  wa'. 

And  dull  and  drowsie  were  his  e'en. 

Then  in  and  came  her  father  dear ; 

Said,  "Let  a'  your  mourning  be ; 
I'll  carry  the  dead  corse  to  the  clay, 

And  I'll  come  back  and  comfort  thee." 

"Comfort  weel  your  seven  sons, 
For  comforted  I  will  never  be: 

striped]  thrust. 


26      THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

I  ween  'twas  neither  knave  nor  loon 
Was  in  the  bower  last  night  wi'  me." 

The  cHnkinR-  bell  gaed  through  the  town, 

To  carry  the  dead  corse  to  the  clay; 
And  Clerk  Saunders  stood  at  may  Margaret's  window, 

I  wot,  an  hour  before  the  day. 

"Are  ye  sleeping,  Marg'ret?"  he  says, 

"Or  are  ye  waking  prescntlie? 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 

I  wot,  true  love,  I  gied  to  thee." 

'Your  faith  and  troth  ye  sail  never  get, 

Nor  our,  true  love  sail  never  twin. 
Until  ye  come  within  my  bower, 

And  kiss  me  cheik  and  chin." 

"My  mouth  it  is  full  cold,  Marg'ret; 

It  has  the  smell,  now,  of  the  ground; 
And  if  I  kiss  thy  comely  mouth. 

Thy  days  of  life  will  not  be  lang. 

"O  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight; 

I  wot  the  wild  fowls  arc  boding  day; 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again. 

And  let  me  fare  me  on  my  way." 

"Thy  faith  and  troth  thou  sallna  get, 

And  our  true  love  sail  never  twin, 
Until  ye  tell  what  comes  o'  women, 

I  wot,  who  die  in  strong  traivelling?" 

"Their  beds  are  made  in  the  heavens  high, 
Down  at  the  foot  of  our  good  Lord's  knee, 

Weel  set  about  wi'  gillyflowers ; 
I  wot,  sweet  company  for  to  see. 

"O  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight; 

I  wot  the  wild  fowls  are  boding  day; 
The  psalms  of  heaven  will  soon  be  sung, 

And  I,  ere  now,  will  be  miss'd  away." 

Then  she  has  taken  a  crystal  wand. 

And  she  has   stroken  her  troth  thereon ; 

She  has  given  it  him  out  at  the  shot-window, 
Wi'  mony  a  sad  sigh  and  heavy  groan. 

twin]  break  in  two. 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  27 

"I  thank  ye,  Marg'ret ;  I  thank  ye,  Marg-'ret ; 

And  ay  I  thank  ye  heartilie ; 
Gin  ever  the  dead  come  for  the  quick, 

Be  sure,  Marg'ret,  I'll  come  for  thee." 

It's  hosen  and  shoon,  and  gown  alone. 

She  climb'd  the  wall,  and  follow'd  him, 
Until  she  came  to  the  green  forest. 

And  there  she  lost  the  sight  o'  him. 

"Is  there  ony  room  at  your  head,  Saunders? 

Is  there  ony  room  at  your  feet? 
Or  ony  room  at  your  side,  Saunders, 

Where  fain,  fain,  I  wad  sleep?" 

"There's  nae  room  at  my  head,  Marg'ret, 

There's  nae  room  at  my  feet ; 
My  bed  it  is  fu'  lowly  now, 

Amang  the  hungry  worms  I  sleep. 

"Cauld  mould  is  my  covering  now, 

But  and  my  winding-sheet ; 
The  dew  it  falls  nae  sooner  down 

Than  my  resting-place  is  weet. 

"But  plait  a  wand  o'  bonny  birk. 

And  lay  it  on  my  breast; 
And  shed  a  tear  upon  my  grave, 

And  wish  my  saul  gude  rest." 

Then  up  and  crew  the  red,  red  cock. 

And  up  and  crew  the  gray: 
"  'Tis  time,  'tis  time,  my  dear  Marg'ret, 

That  you  were  going  away. 

"And   fair   Marg'ret,  and  rare   Marg'ret, 

And  Marg'ret  o'  veritie. 
Gin  e'er  ye  love  another  man, 

Ne'er  love  him  as  ye  did  me." 

The  Twa  Corbies 

yi  S  I  was  walking  all  alane 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane: 

The  tane  unto  the  tither  did  say, 
"Whar  sail  we  gang  and  dine  the  day?" 

corbies]  ravens. 


28      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

" — In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight ; 
And  nacbody  kens  that  he  lies  there 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  his  lady  fair. 

"His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame. 
His  lady's  ta'en  anither  mate. 
So  we  may  mak  our  dinner  sweet. 

"Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pike  out  his  bonny  blue  e'en : 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

"Mony  a  one  for  him  maks  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  whar  he  is  gane : 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair." 


Binnorie 

'  I  ■'HERE  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  hour ; 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie! 
There  cam  a  knight  to  be  their  wooer, 
By  the  bonnie  milldams  o'  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  glove  and  ring, 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  abune  a'  thing. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair. 
And  sair  envied  her  sister  fair. 

Upon  a  morning  fair  and  clear. 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear : 

"O  sister,  sister,  tak  my  hand, 

And  let's  go  down  to  the  river-strand." 

She's  ta'en  her  by  the  lily  hand. 
And  led  her  down  to  the  river-strand. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane, 
The  eldest  cam  and  push'd  her  in. 

"O  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand ! 
And  ye  sail  be  heir  o'  half  my  land: 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  29 

"0  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove  I 
And  sweet  William  sail  be  your  love." 

Sometimes  she  sank,  sometimes  she  swam. 
Until  she  cam  to  the  miller's  dam. 

Out  then  cam  the  miller's  son, 

And  saw  the  fair  maid  soummin'  in. 

"O  father,  father,  draw  your  dam ! 

There's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  milk-white  swan." 

The  miller  hasted  and  drew  his  dam, 
And  there  he  found  a  drown'd  woman. 

You  couldna  see  her  middle  sma*. 
Her  gowden  girdle  was  sae  braw. 

You  couldna  see  her  lily  feet. 
Her  gowden  fringes  were  sae  deep. 

All  amang  her  yellow  hair 

A  string  o'  pearls  was  twisted  rare. 

You  couldna  see  her  fingers  sma', 

Wi'  diamond  rings  they  were  cover'd  a*. 

And  by  there  cam  a  harper  fine, 
That  harpit  to  the  king  at  dine. 

And  when  he  look'd  that  lady  on, 
He  sigh'd  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

He's  made  a  harp  of  her  breast-bane, 
Whose  sound  wad  melt  a  heart  of  stane. 

He's  ta'en  three  locks  o'  her  yellow  hair. 
And  wi'  them  strung  his  harp  sae  rare. 

He  went  into  her  father's  hall, 

And  there  was  the  court  assembled  all. 

He  laid  his  harp  upon  a  stane. 

And  straight  it  began  to  play  by  lane. 

"O  yonder  sits  my  father,  the  King, 
And  yonder  sits  my  mother,  the  Queen; 

"And  yonder  stands  my  brother  Hugh, 
And  by  him  my  William,  sweet  and  true." 

soummin']  swimming. 


30      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

But  the  last  tune  that  the  harp  play'd  then — 

Bifinorie,  O  Binnorie! 
Was,  "Woe  to  my  sister,  false  Helen  1" 

By  the  bonnie  milldams  o'  Binnorie. 


Sir  Patrick  Spens 

I.   THE   SAILING 

'T'HE  king  sits   in   Dunfermline  town 

Drinkinfj  the  blude-red  wine ; 
"O  whare  will  I  get  a  skecly  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  o'  mine?" 

O  up  and  spak  an  eldern  knight. 

Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee ; 
"Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 

That  ever  sail'd  the  sea." 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter. 

And  scal'd  it  with  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

"To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  o'  Noroway 

'Tis  thou  must  bring  her  hame." 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read 

So  loud,  loud  laugh'd  he ; 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read 

The  tear  blinded  his  e'e. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed 

And  tauld  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out,  at  this  time  o'  3'ear, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

"Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  o'  Norowaj', 

'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 

They  horsed  their  sails  on  Monenday  morn 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

skeelyl  skilful. 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  31 

II.   THE   RETURN 

"Mak  ready,  mak  ready,  my  merry  men  a'  I 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn." 
"Now  ever  alack,  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm. 

"I  saw  the  new  moon  late  yestreen 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm ; 
And  if  we  Rang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm." 

They  hadna  sail'd  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three. 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud. 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmast  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm : 
And  the  waves  cam  owre  the  broken  ship 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

"Go  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine. 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side, 

And  let  nae  the  sea  come  in." 

They  fetch'd  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  swine, 
And  they  wrapp'd  them  round  that  gude  ship's  side. 

But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  wet  their  cork-heel'd  shoon ; 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  play'd 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather  bed 

That  flatter'd  on  the  faem ; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit 

Wi'  their  gowd  kames  in  their  hair, 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand  I 

lift]    sky.      lap]     sprang,      flatter'd]    tossed    afloat, 
kames]    combs. 


32      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

And  lang,  lang  mad  the  maidens  sit 
Wi'  their  gowd  kames  in  their  hair, 

A-waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves ! 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

Half-owre,  half-owre  to  Aberdour, 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep; 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet  I 


Chevy-Chase 

/^OD  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 
^^       Our  lives  and  safeties  all ; 
A  woful  hunting  once  there  did 
In  Chevy-Chase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  v^^ith  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The   stout  Earl   of   Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make. 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  to  take ; 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chase 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tidings  to  Earl   Douglas  came. 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay ; 

Who  sent  Earl  Percy  present  word 
He  would  prevent  his  sport. 

The  English  earl,  not  fearing  that. 
Did  to  the  woods  resort, 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold. 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran 

To  chase  the  fallow  dear ; 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt, 

When  daylight  did  appear ; 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  33 

And  lonp:  before  hiph  noon  they  had 

A  hundred  fat  bucks   slain  ; 
Then,  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 

To  rouse  the  deer  again. 

The  bowmen  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure ; 
And  all  their  rear,  with  special  care, 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods 

The  nimble  deer  to  take. 
That  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 

To  view  the  slaughtered  deer ; 
Quoth  he,  "Earl  Douglas  promised 

This  day  to  meet  me  here ; 

"But  if  I  thought  he  would  not  come. 

No  longer  would  I  stay ;" 
With  that,  a  brave  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  earl  did  say: — 

"Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come, — 

His  men  in  armor  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

All  marching  in  our  sight; 

"All  men  of  pleasant  Teviotdale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed ;" 
"Then  cease  your  sports,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"And  take  your  bows  with  speed ; 

"And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen. 

Your  courage  forth  advance ; 
For  never  was   there  champion  yet, 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

"That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-white  steed, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold. 
Rode  foremost  of  his  company. 

Whose  armor  shone  like  gold. 


34      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

"Show  me,"  said  he,  "whose  men  you  be, 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deer." 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make. 

Was  noble  Percy,  he — 
Who  said,  "We  list  not  to  declare. 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be : 

"Yet  will  we  spend  our   dearest  blood 

Thy  chiefest  harts  to  slay." 
Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 

And  thus  in  rage  did  say : — 

"Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be. 

One  of  us  two  shall  die; 
I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  arr, — 

Lord  Percy,  so  am  L 

"But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were, 

And  great  offense,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men. 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

"Let  you  and  I  the  battle  try. 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
"Accursed  be  he,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"By  whom  this  is  denied." 

Then  stepped  a  gallant  squire  forth, 

Witherington  was  his  name. 
Who  said,  "I  would  not  have  it  told 

To  Henry,  our  king,   for  shame, 

"That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot, 

And   I   stood  looking  on. 
You  two  be  earls,"  said  Witherington, 

"And  I  a  squire  alone ; 

"I'll  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 

While  I  have  power  to  stand ; 
While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 

I'll  fight  with  heart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows, — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true ; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent, 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  35 

Yet  stays  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 

As  chieftain  stout  and  good ; 
As  valiant  captain,  all  unmoved. 

The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three. 

As  leader  ware  and  tried ; 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bore  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 

They  dealt  full  many  a  wound ; 
But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 

All  firmly  kept  their  ground. 

And  throwing   straight  their  bows  away, 
They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright; 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side, 

No   slackness  there  was   found; 
And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 

Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  grief  to  see 

How  each  one  chose  his  spear. 
And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  breasts 

Did  gush  like  water  clear. 

At  last  these  two  stout  earls  did  meet ; 

Like  captains  of  great  might, 
Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruel  fight. 

They  fought  until   they  both   did   sweat. 

With  swords  of  tempered  steel, 
Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain. 

They  trickling  down   did   feel. 

"Yield   thee.   Lord   Percy,"  Douglas   said, 

"In  faith  I  will  thee  bring 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

By  James,  our   Scottish  king. 

"Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give. 

And  this  report  of  thee, — 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 


36      THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

"No,  Douglas,"  saith  Earl  Percy  then, 

"Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn ; 
I  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 

That  ever  yet  was  born." 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart, — 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow; 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these: 
"Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 

For  why.  my  life  is  at  an  end ; 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 

Then  leaving  life.  Earl  Percy  took 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand ; 
And  said,  "Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 

Would  I  had  lost  my  hand. 

"In  truth,  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake : 
For  sure  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take." 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was 

Who  saw  Earl  Douglas  die. 
Who  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Earl  Percy. 

Sir  Hugh  Muntgomery  was  he  called, 
Who,  with  a  spear  full  bright. 

Well-mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 

Without  a  dread  or  fear; 
And  through  Earl  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  spear. 

With  such  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore. 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die. 
Whose  courage  none  could  stain. 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  earl  was  slain ; 


BALLADS— ANONYMOUS  37 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand. 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree : 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

To  the  hard  head  drew  he. 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 

So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 
The  gray  goose-wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Earl  Percy  there  were  slain 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 

Both  Knights  of  good  account, 
Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slain, 

Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  my  heart  is  woe 

That  ever  he  slain  should  be, 
For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two. 

He  knelt  and  fought  on  his  knee. 

And  with  Earl  Douglas  there  were  slain 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  field 

One  foot  would  never  flee ; 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Ratcliff,  too, — 

His  sister's  son  was  he; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

But  saved  he  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die : 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three; 
The  rest  in  Chevy-Chase  were  slain. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 


38      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewail ; 
They  washed  their  wounds_  in  brinish  tears, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood. 

They  bore  with  them  away; 
They  kissed  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Where   Scotland's  king  did  reign, 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain : 

"O  heavy  news,"  King  James  did  say; 

"Scotland  can  witness  be 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 

Of  such  account  as  he." 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy-Chase : 

"Now  God  be  with  him,"  said  our  King, 

"Since  'twill  no  better  be ; 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he. 

"Yet  shall  not  Scots  or  Scotland  say 

But  I  will  vengeance  take ; 
I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all 

For  brave  Earl  Percy's  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After  at  Humbledown ; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain 

With  lords  of  high  renown ; 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  die : 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chase, 

Made  by  the  Earl  Percy. 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  this  land, 

With  plenty,  joy,  and  peace; 
And  grant,  hcncefortli,  that  foul  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  39 

EDMUND   SPENSER    (1552-1599) 

EpitJialamion 

"VE  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes 

Been  to  me  aiding,  others  to  adorn. 
Whom  ye  thought  worthy  of  your  graceful  rhymes, 
That  even  the  greatest  did  not  greatly  scorn 
To  hear  their  names  sung  in  your  simple  lays, 
But  joyed  in  their  praise; 

And  when  ye  list  your  own  mishaps  to  mourn, 
Which  death,  or  love,  or  fortune's  wreck  did  raise. 
Your  string  could  soon  to  sadder  tenor  turn, 
And  teach  the  woods  and  waters  to  lament 
Your  doleful  dreariment: 
Now  lay  those  sorrowful  complaints  aside; 
And,  having  all  your  heads  with  garlands  crowned, 
Help  me  mine  own  love's  praises  to  resound; 
Nor  let  the  same  of  any  be  envide : 
So  Orpheus  did  for  his  own  bride ! 
So  I  unto  myself  alone  will  sing; 
The  woods  shall  to  me  answer,  and  my  echo  ring. 

Early,  before  the  world's  light-giving  lamp 

His  golden  beam  upon  the  hills  doth  spread, 

Having  dispersed  the  night's  uncheerful  damp, 

Do  ye  awake ;  and,  with  fresh  lusty-hed. 

Go  to  the  bower  of  my  beloved  love, 

My  truest  turtle  dove ; 

Bid  her  awake ;  for  Hymen  is  awake. 

And  long  since  ready  forth  his  mask  to  move, 

W^ith  his  bright  Tead  that  flames  with  many  a  flake, 

And  manj'  a  bachelor  to  wait  on  him. 

In  their  fresh  garments  trim. 

Bid  her  awake  therefore,  and  soon  her  dight. 

For  lo !  the  wished  day  is  come  at  last. 

That  shall,  for  all  the  pains  and  sorrows  past. 

Pay  to  her  usury  of  long  delight: 

And.  whilst  she  doth  her  dight. 

Do  ye  to  her  of  joy  and  solace  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Bring  with  you  all  the  Nymphs  that  you  can  hear, 

Both  of  the  rivers  and  the  forests  green, 

And  of  the  sea  that  neighbors  to  her  near, 

All  with  gay  garlands  goodly  well  beseen. 

And  let  them  also  with  them  bring  in  hand 

Another  gay  garland. 

For  my  fair  love,  of  lilies  and  of  roses, 


40      THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Bound  true  love  wise  with  a  blue  silk  riband ;  _ 

And  let  them  make  great  store  of  bridal  posies, 

And  let  them  eke  bring  store  of  other  flowers, 

To  deck  the  bridal  bowers. 

And  let  the  ground  whereas  her  foot  should  wrong, 

For  fear  the  stones  her  tender  foot  should  wrong, 

Be  strewed  with  fragrant  flowers  all  along, 

And  diapered  like  the  discolored  mead ; 

Which  done,  do  at  her  chamber  door  await, 

For  she  will  waken  straight; 

The  whiles  do  ye  this  song  unto  her  sing, 

The  woods  shall  to  you  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Ye  Nymphs  of  Mulla,  which  with  careful  heed 

The  silver  scaly  trouts  do  tend   full  well. 

And  greedy  pikes  which  use  therein  to  feed 

(Those  trouts  and  pikes  all  others  do  excel)  ; 

And  ye  likewise,  which  keep  the  rushy  lake, 

Where  none  do  fishes  take ; 

Bind  up  the  locks  the  which  hang  scattered  light. 

And  in  his  waters,  which  your  mirror  make. 

Behold  your  faces  as  the  crystal  bright. 

That  when  you  come  whereas  my  love  doth  lie. 

No  blemish  she  may  spy. 

And  eke,  ye  lightfoot  maids,  which  keep  the  deer. 

That  on  the  hoary  mountain  used  to  tower ; 

And  the  wild  wolves,  which  seek  them  to  devour, 

With  your  steel  darts  do  chase  from  coming  near ; 

Be  also  present  here, 

To  help  to  deck  her,  and  to  help  to  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Wake,  now,  my  love,  awake  I  for  it  is  time ; 

The  rosy  morn  long  since  left  Tithon's  bed, 

All  ready  to  her  silver  coach  to  climb ; 

And  Phoebus  'gins  to  show  his  glorious  head. 

Hark,  how  the  cheerful  birds  do  chant  their  lays 

And  carol  of  love's  praise. 

The  merry  lark  her  matins  sings  aloft; 

The  thrush  replies ;  the  mavis  descant  plays ; 

The  ouzel  shrills;  the  ruddock  warbles  soft; 

So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent. 

To  this  day's  merriment. 

Ah !  my  dear  love,  why  do  ye  sleep  thus  long. 

When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 

To  await  the  coming  of  your  joyous  mate. 

And  hearken  to  the  birds'  love-learned  song. 

The  dewy  leaves  among! 

For  they  of  joy  and  plcasance  to  you  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  41 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreams, 

And  her  fair  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmed  were 

With  darksome  cloud,  now  show  their  goodly  beams 

More  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rear. 

Come  now,  ye  damsels,  daughters  of  delight, 

Help  quickly  her  to  dight : 

But  first  come,  ye  fair  hours,  which  were  begot 

In  Jove's  sweet  paradise  of  Day  and  Night; 

Which  do  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot, 

And  all  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fair. 

Do  make  and  still  repair: 

And  ye  three  handmaids  of  the  Cyprian  queen. 

The  which  do  still  adorn  her  beauty's  pride. 

Help  to  adorn  my  beautifulcst  bride; 

And  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  between 

Some  graces  to  be  seen, 

And,  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing, 

The  whiles  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come : 

Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  await : 

And  ye  fresh  boys,  that  tend  upon  her  groom, 

Prepare  yourselves;  for  he  is  coming  straight; 

Set  all  your  things  in  seemly  good  array, 

Fit  for  so  joyful  day: 

The  joyfulest  day  that  ever  sun  did  see. 

Fair  Sun  !  show  forth  thy  favorable  ray. 

And  let  th}'  life-full  heat  not  fervent  be, 

For  fear  of  burning  her  sunshiny  face, 

Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 

O  fairest  Phoebus!  father  of  the  Muse  I 

H  ever  I  did  honor  thee  aright. 

Or  sing  the  thing  that  might  thy  mind  delight, 

Do  not  thy  servant's  simple  boon  refuse ; 

But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day,  be  mine ; 

Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 

Then  I  thy  sovereign  praises  loud  will  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

Hark  I  how  the  Minstrels  'gin  to  shrill  aloud 

Their  merry  music  that  resounds  from  far. 

The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  trembling  croud. 

That  well  agree  withouten  breach  or  jar. 

But,  most  of  all,  the  Damsels  do  delight 

When  thej'  their  timbrels  smite, 

And  thereunto  do  dance  and  carol  sweet. 

That  all  the  senses  they  do  ravish  quite; 

The  whiles  the  boys  run  up  and  down  the  street, 

Crying  aloud  with  strong  confused  noise, 


42      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

As  if  it  were  one  voice, 

Hymen,  io  Hymen,  Hymen,  they  do  sheut; 

That  even  to  the  heavens  their  shouting  shrill 

Doth  reach,  and  all  the  firmament  dcth  fill; 

To  which  the  people  standing  all  about, 

As  in  approvance,  do  thereto  applaud, 

And  loud  advance  her  laud ; 

And  evermore  they  Hymen,  Hymen  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

Lo !  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace. 

Like  Phcebe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  East, 

Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 

Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin  best. 

So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would  ween 

Some  angel  she  had  been. 

Her  long  loose  yellow  locks  like  golden  wire, 

Sprinkled  with  pearl,  and  pearling  flowers  atween, 

Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire ; 

And,  being  crowned  with  a  garland  green. 

Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 

Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 

So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are ; 

Nor  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold. 

But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud. 

So  far  from  being  proud. 

Nathless  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants'  daughters,  did  ye  see 

So  fair  a  creature  in  your  town  before; 

So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she. 

Adorned  with  beauty's  grace  and  virtue's  store? 

Her  goodly  eyes  like  sapphires  shining  bright, 

Her  forehead  ivory  white. 

Her  cheeks  like  apples  which  the  sun  hath  ruddied. 

Her  lips  like  cherries  charming  men  to  bite, 

Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream  uncrudded. 

Her  paps  like  lilies  budded, 

Her  snowy  neck  like  to  a  marble  tower; 

And  all  her  body  like  a  palace  fair, 

Ascending  up,  with  many  a  stately  stair. 

To  honor's  seat  and  chastity's  sweet  bower. 

Why  stand  j^e  still,  ye  virgins,  in  amaze. 

Upon  her  so  to  gaze. 

Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing. 

To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and  your  echo  ring? 


EDMUND  SPENSER  43 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see, 

The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright, 

Garnished  with  heavenly  gifts  of  high  degree,_ 

Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at  that  sight, 

And  stand  astonished  like  to  those  which  read 

Medusa's  mazeful  head. 

There  dwells  sweet  love,  and  constant  chastity. 

Unspotted  faith,  and  comely  womanhood, 

Regard  of  honor,  and  mild  modesty; 

There  virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal  throne. 

And  giveth  laws  alone, 

The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey, 

And  yield  their  services  unto  her  will; 

Nor  thought  of  thing  uncomely  ever  may 

Thereto  approach  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 

Had  ye  once  seen  these  her  celestial  treasures. 

And  unrevealed  pleasures, 

Then  would  ye  wonder,  and  her  praises  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love, 

Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in. 

And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove, 

And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garlands  trim. 

For  to  receive  this  Saint  with  honor  due, 

That  Cometh  in  to  you. 

With  trembling  steps,  and  humble  reverence. 

She   Cometh   in,   before  the   Almighty's   view; 

Of  her  3'e  virgins  learn  obedience. 

When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places. 

To  humble  your  proud  faces : 

Bring  her  up  to  the  high  altar,  that  she  may 

The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake. 

The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make ; 

And  let  the  roaring  organs  loudly  play 

The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes ; 

The  whiles,  with  hollow  throats. 

The  Choristers  the  joyous  Anthems  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands. 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks. 
And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks, 
And  the  pure  snow,  with  croodly  vermill  stain 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain : 
That  even  the   Angels,   which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain. 
Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly. 


44      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair, 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 

Why  blush  ye,  love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band? 

Sing,  ye  sweet  Angels,  Alleluja  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Now  all  is  done :  bring  home  the  bride  again ; 

Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory: 

Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gain ; 

With  joyance  bring  her  and  with  jollity. 

Never  had  man  more  joyful  day  than  this. 

Whom  heaven  would  heap  with  bliss. 

Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  live-long  day; 

This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is. 

Pour  out  the  wine  without  restraint  or  stay, 

Pour  not  by  cups,  but  by  the  belly  full. 

Pour  out  to  all  that  will. 

And  sprinkle  all  the  posts  and  walls  with  wine. 

That  they  may  sweat,  and  drunken  be  withal. 

Crown  ye  God  Bacchus  with  a  coronal, 

And  Hymen  also  crown  with  wreaths  of  vine; 

And  let  the  Graces  dance  unto  the  rest, 

For  they  can  do  it  best : 

The  whiles  the  maidens  do  their  carol  sing. 

To  which  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

Ring  ye  the  bells,  ye  young  men  of  the  town, 

And  leave  your  wonted  labors  for  this  day: 

This  day  is  holy;  do  ye  write  it  down. 

That  ye  for  ever  it  remember  may. 

This  day  the  sun  is  in  his  chiefest  height. 

With   Barnaby  the  bright. 

From  whence  declining  daily  by  degrees. 

He  somewhat  loseth  of  his  heat  and  light. 

When  once  the  Crab  behind  his  back  he  sees. 

But  for  this  time  it  ill  ordained  was. 

To  choose  the  longest  day  in  all  the  year, 

And  shortest  night,  when  longest  fitter  were : 

Yet  never  day  so  long,  but  late  would  pass. 

Ring  }'e  the  bells,  to  make  it  wear  away. 

And  bonfires  make  all  day ; 

And  dance  about  them,  and  about  them  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  45 

Ah !  when  will  this  long  weary  day  have  end. 

And  lend  me  leave  to  come  nnto  my  love? 

How  slowly  do  the  hours  their  numbers  spend? 

How  slowly  does  sad  Time  his  feathers  move? 

Haste  thee,  O  fairest  Planet,  to  thy  home, 

Within  the  Western  foam : 

Thy  tired  steeds  long  since  have  need  of  rest. 

Long  though  it  be,  at  last  I  see  it  gloom, 

And  the  bright  evening-star  with  golden  crest 

Appear  out  of  the  East. 

Fair  child  of  beauty!  glorious  lamp  of  love! 

That  all  the  host  of  heaven  in  ranks  dost  lead. 

And  guidest  lovers  through  the  night's  sad  dread, 

How  cheerfully  thou  lookest  from  above. 

And  seems  to  laugh  atween  thy  twinkling  light, 

As  joying  in  the  sight 

Of  these  glad  many,  which  for  joy  do  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring! 

Now,  cease,  ye  damsels,  your  delights  fore-past ; 

Enough  is  it  that  all  the  day  was  yours : 

Now  day  is  done,  and  night  is  nighing  fast. 

Now  bring  the  bride  into  the  bridal  bowers. 

The  night  is  come,  now  soon  her  disarray, 

And  in  her  bed  her  lay ; 

Lay  her  in  lilies  and  in  violets. 

And  silken  curtains  over  her  display. 

And  odored  sheets,  and  Arras  coverlets. 

Behold  how  goodly  m}'  fair  love  does  lie, 

In  proud  humility! 

Like  unto  Maia,  when  as  Jove  her  took 

In  Tempe,  lying  on  the  flov/ery  grass, 

'Twixt  sleep  and  wake,  after  she  weary  was, 

With  bathing  in  the  Acidalian  brook. 

Now  it  is  night,  ye  damsels  may  be  gone. 

And  leave  my  love  alone. 

And  leave  likewise  your  former  lay  to  sing : 

The  woods  no  more  shall  answer,  nor  your  echo  ring. 

Now  welcome,  night !  thou  night  so  long  expected, 

That  long  day's  labor  dost  at  last  defray, 

And  all  my  cares,  which  cruel  Love  collected, 

Hast  summed  in  one,  and  cancelled  for  aye : 

Spread  thy  broad  wing  over  my  love  and  me, 

That  no  man  may  us  see ; 

And  in  thy  sable  mantle  us  enwrap, 

From  fear  of  peril  and  foul  horror  free. 

Let  no  false  treason  seek  us  to  entrap. 

Nor  any  dread  disquiet  once  annoy 

The  safety  of  our  joy; 


46      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

But  let  the  night  be  calm,  and  quietsome, 
Without  tempestuous  storms  or  sad  atlray: 
Like  as  when  Jove  with  fair  Alcmena  lay, 
When  he  begot  the  great  Tirynthian  groom: 
Or  like  as  when  he  with  thyself  did  lie 
And  begot  Majesty. 

And  let  the  maids  and  young  men  cease  to  sing; 
Nor  let  the  woods  them  answer,  nor  their  echo  ring. 


Let  no  lamenting  cries,  nor  doleful  tears. 

Be  heard  all  night  within,  nor  yet  without: 

Nor  let  false  whispers,  breeding  hidden  fears, 

Break  gentle  sleep  with  misconceived  doubt. 

Let  no  deluding  dreams,  nor  dreadful  sights, 

Make  sudden  sad  affrights ; 

Nor  let  house-fires,  nor  lightning's  helpless  harms. 

Nor  let  the  Puck,  nor  other  evil  sprites. 

Nor  let  mischievous  witches  with  their  charms, 

Nor  let  hobgoblins,  names  whose  sense  we  see  not, 

Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not : 

Let  not  the  screech-owl  nor  the  stork  be  heard, 

Nor  the  night  raven,  that  still  deadly  yells ; 

Nor  damned  ghosts,  called  up  with  mighty  spells, 

Nor  grizzly  vultures,  make  us  once  afraid : 

Nor  let  the  unpleasant  choir  of  frogs  still  croaking 

Make  us  to  wish  their  choking. 

Let  none  of  these  their  dreary  accents  sing; 

Nor  let  the  woods  them  answer,  nor  their  echo  ring. 

But  let  still  Silence  true  night-watches  keep. 

That  sacred  Peace  may  in  assurance  reign, 

And  timely  Sleep,  when  it  is  time  to  sleep. 

May  pour  his  limbs  forth  on  your  pleasant  plain ; 

The  whiles  an  hundred  little  winged  loves, 

Like   divers-feathered   doves. 

Shall  fly  and  flutter  round  about  your  bed, 

And  in  the  secret  dark,  that  none  reproves, 

Their  pretty  stealths  shall  work,  and  snares  shall  spread 

To  filch  away  sweet  snatches  of  delight, 

Concealed  through  covert  night. 

Ye  sons  of  Venus,  play  your  sports  at  will ! 

For  greedy  pleasure,  careless  of  your  toys, 

Thinks  more  upon  her  paradise  of  joys. 

Then  what  ye  do,  albeit  good  or  ill. 

All  night  therefore  attend  your  merry  play. 

For  it  will  soon  be  day: 

Now  none  doth  hinder  you,  that  say  or  sing; 

Nor  will  the  woods  now  answer,  nor  your  echo  ring. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  47 

Who  is  the  same,  which  at  my  window  peeps? 

Or  whose  is  that  fair  face  that  shines  so  bright? 

Is  it  not  Cj'nthia,  she  that  never  sleeps, 

But  walks  about  high  heaven  all  the  night? 

O !  fairest  goddess,  do  thou  not  envy 

My  love  with  me  to  spy: 

For  thou  likewise  didst  love,  though  now  unthought, 

And  for  a  fleece  of  wool,  which  privily 

The  Latmian  shepherd  once  unto  thee  brought, 

His  pleasures  with  thee  wrought. 

Therefore  to  us  be  favorable  now ; 

And  since  of  women's  labors  thou  hast  charge, 

And  generation  goodly  dost  enlarge. 

Incline  thy  will  to  effect  our  wishful  vow, 

And  the  chaste  womb  inform  with  timely  seed, 

That  may  our  comfort  breed: 

Till  which  we  cease  our  hopeful  hap  to  sing; 

Nor  let  the  woods  us  answer,  nor  our  echo  ring. 

And  thou,  great  Juno !  which  with  awful  might 

The  laws  of  wedlock  still  dost  patronize. 

And  the  religion  of  the  faith  first  plight 

With  sacred  rites  hast  taught  to  solemnize; 

And  eke  for  comfort  often  called  art 

Of  women  in  their  smart; 

Eternally  bind  thou  this  lovely  band, 

And  all  thy  blessings  unto  us  impart. 

And  thou,  glad  Genius  !  in  whose  gentle  hand 

The  bridal  bower  and  genial  bed  remain. 

Without  blemish  or  stain  ; 

And  the  sweet  pleasures  of  their  love's  delight 

With  secret  aid  dost  succor  and  supply. 

Till  they  bring  forth  the  fruitful  progeny; 

Send  us  the  timely  fruit  of  this  same  night. 

And  thou,  fair  Hebe !  and  thou.  Hymen  free  I 

Grant  that  it  may  so  be. 

Till  which  we  cease  your  further  praise  to  sing; 

Nor  any  woods  shall  answer,  nor  your  echo  ring. 

And  ye  high  heavens,  the  temple  of  the_  gods. 

In  which  a  thousand  torches  flaming  bright 

Do  burn,  that  to  us  wretched  earthly  clods 

In  dreadful  darkness  lend  desired  light; 

And  all  ye  powers  which  in  the  same  remain, 

More  than  we  men  can  feign. 

Pour  out  your  blessing  on  us  plenteously, 

And  happy  influence  upon  us  rain. 

That  we  may  raise  a  large  posterity. 

Which  from  the  earth,  which  they  may  long  possess 


48      THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

With  lasting  happiness, 

Up  to  your  haughty  palaces  may  mount; 

And,  for  the  guerdon  of  their  glorious  merit, 

May  heavenly  tabernacles  there  inherit. 

Of  blessed  Saints  for  to  increase  the  count. 

So  let  us  rest,  sweet  love,  in  hope  of  this, 

And  cease  till  then  our  timely  joys  to  sing: 

The  woods  no  more  us  answer,  nor  our  echo  ring! 

Song!  made  in  lieu  of  many  ornaments, 

With  which  my  love  should  duly  have  been  decked, 

Which  cutting  off  through  hasty  accidents, 

Ye  would  not  stay  your  due  time  to  expect, 

But  proviised  both  to  recompense; 

Be  unto  her  a  goodly  ornament, 

And  for  short  time  an  endless  monument. 


Prothalamion 

f^  ALME  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  ayre 

^^    Sweete-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play 

A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 

Hot  Titans  beames,  which  then  did  glyster  fayre ; 

When  I,   (whom  sullein  care, 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitlesse  stay 

In  Princes  Court,  and  expectation  vaj'ne 

Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  doe  fly  away. 

Like  empty  shaddowes,  did  afflict  my  brayne,) 

Walkt  forth  to  ease  my  payne 

Along  the  shoare  of  silver  streaming  Themmes ; 

Whose  rutty  Bancke,  the  which  his  River  hemmes. 

Was  paynted  all  with  variable  flowers. 

And  all  the  meades  adorned  with  daintie  gemmes 

Fit  to  decke  maydens  bowres. 

And  crowne  their  Paramours 

Against  the  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

There,  in  a  Meadow,  by  the  Rivers  side, 

A  Flocke  of  Nymphes  I  chaunced  to  espy, 

All  lovely  Daughters  of  the  Flood  thereby, 

With  goodly  greenish  locks,  all  loose  untyde, 

As  each  had  bene  a  Bryde ; 

And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket, 

Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrayled  curiously. 

In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their  flasket, 

And  with  fine  Fingers  cropt  full  feateously 

The  tender  stalkes  on  hye. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  49 

Of  every  sort,  which  in  that  Meadow  grew, 

They  gathered  some ;  the  Violet,  pallid  blew. 

The  little  Dazie,  that  at  evening  closes. 

The  virgin  Lillie,  and  the  Primrose  trew. 

With  store  of  vermeil  Roses, 

To  decke  their  Bridcgromes  posies 

Against  the  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes  !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  Swannes  of  goodly  hewe 

Come  softly  swimming  downe  along  the  Lee; 

Two  fairer  Birds  I  yet  did  never  see ; 

The  snow,  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strew. 

Did  never  whiter  shew; 

Nor  Jove  himselfe,  when  he  a  Swan  would  be, 

For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appeare ; 

Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he. 

Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  neare; 

So  purely  white  they  were. 

That  even  the  gentle  streame,  the  which  them  bare, 

Seem'd  foule  to  them,  and  bad  his  billowes  spare 

To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  least  they  might 

Soyle  their  fayre  plumes  with  water  not  so  fayre. 

And  marre  their  beauties  bright. 

That  shone  as  heavens  light, 

Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes  !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Eftsoones  the  Nymphes,  which  now  had  Flowers  their  fill, 
Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood, 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  Christal  Flood ; 
Whom  when  they  sawe,  they  stood  amazed  still. 
Their  wondring  eyes  to  fill ; 
Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fayre. 
Of  Fowles,  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deeme 
Them  heavenly  borne,  or  to  be  that  same  payre 
Which  through  the  Skie  draw  Venus  silver  Teeme; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seeme 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  Seede, 
But  rather  Angels,  or  of  Angels  breede; 
Yet  were  they  bred  of  Somers-heat,  they  say, 
In  sweetest  Season,  when  each  Flower  and  weede 
The  earth  did  fresh  aray: 
So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day, 

Even  as  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweete  Themmes  I  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 
Great  store  of  Flowers,  the  honour  of  the  field. 
That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield. 


50      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

All  which  upon  those  goodly  Birds  they  threw 

And  all  the  Waves  did  strew, 

That  like  old  Peneus  Waters  they  did  seeme, 

When  downe  along  by  pleasant  Tempes  shore, 

Scattred  with  Flowres,  through  Thessaly  they  streeme. 

That  they  appeare,  through  Lillies  plenteous  store, 

Like  a  Brydes  Chamber  flore. 

Two  of  those  Nymphes,  meane  while,  two  Garlands  bound 

Of  freshest  Flowres  which  in  that  Mead  they  found, 

The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  Array, 

Their  snowie  Foreheads  therewithall  they  crown'd, 

W^hil'st  one  did  sing  this  Lay, 

Prepar'd  against  that  Day, 

Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

"Ye  gentle  Birdes!  the  worlds  faire  ornament, 

And  heavens  glorie,  whom  this  happie  hower 

Doth  leade  unto  your  lovers  blisfull  bower, 

Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts  content 

Of  j'onr  loves  couplement ; 

And  let  faire  Venus,  that  is  Queene  of  love, 

With  her  heart-quelling  Sonne  upon  you  smile, 

Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  vertue  to  remove 

All  Loves  dislike,  and  friendships  faultie  guile 

For  ever  to  assoile. 

Let  endlesse  Peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord, 

And  blessed  Plentie  v/ait  upon  your  bord ; 

And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chast  abound. 

That  fruitfull  issue  may  to  you  afford. 

Which  may  your  foes  confound. 

And  make  your  joyes  redound 

Upon  your  Brj^dale  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes!  runne  softlie,  till  I  end  my  Song." 

So  ended  she :  and  all  the  rest  around 

To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong. 

Which  said  their  brydale  daye  should  not  be  long: 

And  gentle  Eccho   from  the  neighbor  ground 

Their  accents  did  resound. 

So  forth  those  joyous  Birdes  did  passe  along, 

Adowne  the  Lee,  that  to  them  murmurde  low. 

As  he  would  speake,  but  that  he  lackt  a  tong, 

Yet  did  by  signes  his  glad  affection  show. 

Making  his  streame  run  slow. 

And  all  the  foule  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 

Gan  flock  about  these  twaine,  that  did  excel! 

The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shcnd 

The  lesser  starres.     So  they,  enranged  well. 

Did  on  those  two  attend. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  51 

And  their  best  service  lend 

Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

At  length  they  all  to  mery  London  came, 

To  mery  London,  my  most  kyndly  Nurse, 

That  to  me  gave  this  Life's  first  native  source, 

Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name. 

An  house  an  auncicnt  fame : 

There  when  they  came,  whereas  those  bricky  towres 

The  which  on  Themmes  brode  aged  backe  doe  ryde, 

Where  now  the  studious  Lawyers  have  their  bowers. 

There  whylome  wont  the  Templcr  Knights  to  byde. 

Till  they  decayd  through  pride : 

Next  whereunto  there  standes  a  stately  place. 

Where  oft  I  gayned  giftes  and  goodly  grace 

Of  that  great  Lord,  which  therein  wont  to  dwell. 

Whose  want  too  well  now  feeles  my  f reendles  case ; 

But  ah !  here  fits  not  well 

Olde  woes,  but  joyes,  to  tell 

Against  the  Brydale  daye,  which  is  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  Peer, 

Great  Englands  glory,  and  the  Worlds  wide  wonder. 

Whose  dreadfull  name  late  through  all  Spaine  did  thunder, 

And  Hercules  two  pillors  standing  neere 

Did  make  to  quake  and  feare : 

Faire  branch  of  Honor,  flower  of  Chevalrie ! 

That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumphes  fame, 

Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victorie. 

And  endless  happinesse  of  thine  owne  name 

That  promiseth  the  same ; 

That  through  thy  prowesse,  and  victorious  armes, 

Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  forraine  harmes ; 

And  great  Elisaes  glorious  name  may  ring 

Through  al  the  world,  fil'd  with  thy  wide  Alarmes, 

Which  some  brave  muse  may  sing 

To  ages  following, 

Upon  the  Brj^dale  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

From  those  high  Towers  this  noble  Lord  issuing. 

Like  Radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hayre 

In  th'  Ocean  billowes  he  hath  bathed  fayre. 

Descended  to  the  Rivers  open  vewing. 

With  a  great  traine  ensuing. 

Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  bee  seene 

Two  gentle  Knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature. 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  anie  Queene, 


52      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

With  gifts  of  wit,  and  ornaments  of  nature, 

Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in  sight, 

Which  decke  the  Bauldricke  of  the  Heavens  bright; 

They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  River's  side, 

Received  those  two  faire  Brides,  their  Loves  delight; 

Which,  at  th'  appointed  tyde, 

Each  one  did  make  his  Bryde 

Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 


Sonnets 

I^RESH  Spring,  the  herald  of  love's  mighty  king 

In  whose  coat-armour  richly  are  displayed 
All  sorts  of  flowers  the  which  on  earth  do  spring. 
In  goodly  colors  gloriously  arrayed ; 
Go  to  my  love  where  she  is  careless  laid 
Yet  in  her  winter's  bower  not  well  awake; 
Tell  her  the  joyous  time  will  not  be  stayed 
Unless  she  do  him  by  the  forelock  take  ; 
Bid  her,  therefore,  herself  soon  ready  make 
To  wait  on  Love  among  his  lovely  crew ; 
Where  every  one  that  misseth  then  her  make 
Shall  be  by  him  amerced  with  pennance  due. 
Make  haste,  therefore,  sweet  Love,  while  it  is  prime. 
For  none  can  call  again  the  passed  time. 

Oft  when  my  spirit  doth  spread  her  bolder  wings, 

In  mind  to  mount  up  to  the  purest  sky. 

It  down  is  weighed  with  thought  of  earthly  things, 

And  clogged  with  burden  of  mortality; 

Where  when  that  sovereign  beauty  it  doth  spy, 

Resembling  heaven's  glory  in  her  light, 

Drawn  with  sweet  pleasure's  bait  it  back  doth  fly, 

And  unto  heaven  forgets  her  former  flight. 

There  my  frail   fancy,   fed  with   full  delight, 

Doth  bathe  in  bliss,  and  mantlcth  most  at  ease ; 

Me  thinks  of  other  heaven  but  how  it  might 

Her  heart's  desire  with  most  contentment  please. 

Heart  need  not  wish  none  other  happiness 

But  here  on  earth  to  have  such  heaven's  bliss. 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand; 
But  come  the  waves  and  washed  it  away: 
Again  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand. 
Rut  come  the  tide  and  made  my  pains  his  prey. 
Vain  man !  said  she.  that  dost  in  vain  assay 


JOHN  LYLY  53 

A  mortal  thing:  to  immortaHze ; 
For  I  myself  shall  like  to  this  decay, 
And  eke  my  name  be  wiped  out  likewise. 
Not  so,  quoth  I ;  let  base  thincfs  devise 
To  die  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame; 
My  verse  your  virtues  rare  shall  eternize, 
And  in  the  heavens  write  your  glorious  name, — 
Where,  whereas  death  shall  all  the  world  subdue, 
O.ur  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew. 


JOHN  LYLY   (iS53-i6o6) 
Cupid  and  Campaspe 

/^UPID  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses;  Cupid  paid: 
He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 
His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows ; 
Loses  them  too ;  then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how)  ; 
With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
And  then  the  dimple  on  his  chin ; 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win : 
And  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes — 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love!  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas!  become  of  me? 

The  Fairy  Frolic 

IJY  the  moon  we  sport  and  play, 
With  the  night  begins  our  day: 
As  we  frisk  the  dew  doth  fall: 
Trip  it,  little  urchins  all ! 
Lightly  as  the  little  bee. 
Two  by  two,  and  three  by  three : 
And  about  go  we,  and  about  go  we ! 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554-1586) 
Sonnets  from  "Astrophel  and  Stella'* 

T   OVING  in  truth,  and  fain  in  verse  my  love  to  show. 

That  She,  dea**  She !  might  take  some  pleasure  of  my  pain; 
Pleasure  might  cause  her  read,  reading  might  make  her  know, 
Knowledge  might  pity  win,  and  pity  grace  obtain: 


54      THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

I  sought  fit  words  to  paint  the  blackest  face  of  woe, 

Studying  inventions  fine,  her  wits  to  entertain ; 

Oft  turning  others'  leaves,  to  see  if  thence  would  flow 

Some   fresh  and   fruitful  showers  upon  my  sunburnt  brain; 

But  words  came  halting  forth,  wanting  Invention's  stay. 

Invention,  Nature's  child,  fled  step-dame  Study's  blows ; 

And  others'  feet  still  seemed  but  strangers  in  my  way. 

Thus,  great  with  child  to  speak,  and  helpless  in  my  throes, 
Biting  my  truant  pen,  beating  myself  for  spite: 
"Fool  I"  said  my  Muse  to  me,  "look  in  thy  heart,  and  write  I" 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies  I 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 

What !  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries? 

Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 

Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case; 

I  read  it  in  thy  looks.    Thy  languished  grace 

To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me. 

Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit? 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess? 

Do  they  call  virtue  there,  ungratefulness? 

Come  Sleep  1    O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low! 
With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  I 

1  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me,  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head : 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right. 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

Thou  blind  man's  mark,  thou  fool's  self-chosen  snare, 
Fond  fancy's  scum,  and  dregs  of  scattered  thought: 
Band  of  all  evils;  cradles  of  causeless  care; 
Thou  web  of  will,  whose  end  is  never  wrought: 
Desire!     Desire!     I  have  too  dearly  bought. 
With  price  of  mangled  mind,  thy  worthless  ware; 
Too  long,  too  long,  asleep  thou  hast  me  brought. 
Who  should  my  mind  to  higher  things  prepare. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  55 

But  yet  in  vain  thou  hast  my  ruin  sought ; 
In  vain  thou  mad'st  me  to  vain  things  aspire; 
In  vain  thou  kindlcst  all  thy  smoky  fire ; 
For  Virtue  hath  this  better  lesson  taught, — 
Within  myself  to  seek  my  only  hire. 
Desiring  nought  but  how  to  kill  Desire. 

Leave  me,  O  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust ; 

And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things ; 

Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust ; 

Whatever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 

Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 

To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be ; 

Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the  light 

That  doth  both  shine,  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 

O  take  fast  hold ;  let  that  light  be  thy  guide 

In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death, 

And  think  how  ill  becometh  him  to  slide, 

Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 

Then  farewell,  world ;  thy  uttermost  I  see : 

Eternal  Love,  maintain  thy  life  in  me! 

Song  from  "Astrophel  and  Stella!' 

C\  NELY  Joy,  now  here  you  are, 
^'^    Fit  to  heare  and  ease  my  care, 
Let  my  whispering  voyce  obtaine 
Sweete  reward  for  sharpest  paine; 
Take  me  to  thee,  and  thee  to  me: 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

Night  hath  clos'd  all  in  her  cloke. 
Twinkling  starres  love-thoughts  provoke, 
Danger  hence,  good  care  doth  keepe, 
Jealouzie  itself  doth  sleepc; 
Take  me  to  thee,  and  thee  to  me: 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

Better  place  no  wit  can  find, 
Cupid's  yoke  to  loose  or  binde ; 
These  sweet  flowers  on  fine  bed  too, 
Us  in  their  best  language  woo ; 
Take  me  to  thee,  and  thee  to  me: 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

This  small  light  the  moone  bestowes 
Serves  thy  beames  but  to  disclose; 
So  to  raise  my  hap  more  hie, 


56      THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Feare  not  else  none  can  us  spie; 
Take  me  to  thee,  and  thee  to  me : 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

That  you  heard  was  but  a  mouse, 
Dumbe  sleepe  holdeth  all  the  house: 
Yet  asleepe,  me  thinkes  thej'  say, 
Yong  folkes  take  time  while  you  may; 
Take  me  to  thee,  and  thee  to  me : 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

Niggard  time  threats,  if  we  misse 
This  large  offer  of  our  blisse. 
Long  sta3%  ere  he  graunt  the  same : 
Sweet,  then,  while  ech  thing  doth  frame, 
Take  me  to  thee,  and  thee  to  me : 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

Your  faire  mother  is  a-bed. 
Candles  out  and  curtaines  spread ; 
She  thinkes  you  do  letters  write ; 
Write,  but  let  me  first  endite ; 
Take  me  to  thee,  and  thee  to  me : 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

Sweet,  alas,  why  strive  j^ou  thus? 
Concord  better  fitteth  us  ; 
Leave  to  Mars  the  force  of  hands 
Your  power  in  your  beautie  stands ; 
Take  thee  to  me,  and  me  to  thee : 
"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 

Wo  to  me,  and  do  you  sweare 

Me  to  hate  ?  but  I  f orbeare  ; 

Cursed  be  my  destinies  all. 

That  brought  me  so  high  to  fall ; 

Soone   with  my  death   I   will   please  thee : 

"No,  no,  no,  no,  my  Deare,  let  be." 


From  the  "Arcadia!' 

ly^'Y  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
^         By  just  exchange  one  for  the  other  given: 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss ; 

There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven : 
His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one. 

My  heart  in  him  his  thouglits  and  senses  guides: 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  57 

He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 

I  cherish  his,  because  in  me  it  bides. 
His  heart  his   wound   received   from  my  sight; 

My  heart  was  wounded   from  his  wounded  heart ; 
For  as  from  me,  on  him  his  hurt  did  light, 

So  still  me  thought  in  me  his  heart  did  smart : 
Both  equal  hurt,  in  this  change  sought  our  bliss, 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 


A  Dirge 

"D  ING  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shews  be  spread ; 

For  Love  is  dead : 

All  Love  is  dead,  infected 
With  plague  of  deep  disdain  : 

Worth,  as  nought  worth,  rejected. 
And  Faith  fair  scorn  doth  gain. 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus. 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

Weep,  neighbors,  weep ;  do  yon  not  hear  it  said 
That  Love  is  dead? 

His  death-bed,  peacock's  folly: 
His  winding-sheet  is  shame ; 

His  will,  false-seeming  wholly; 
His  sole  executor,  blame. 

From  so  ungrateful   fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus. 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

Let  Dirge  be  sung,  and  Treutals  rightly  read. 
For  Love  is  dead ; 

Sir  Wrong  his  tomb  ordaineth 
Mj'  mistress  marble-heart. 

Which  epitaph  containeth, 
"Her  eyes  were  once  his  dart." 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy. 

From  such  a  female  frenzy. 

From  that  that  use  men  thus. 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

Alas,  I  lie :  rage  hath  this  error  bred ; 
Love  is  not  dead; 


58      THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Love  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth 
In  her  unmatched  mind, 

Where  she  his  counsel  keepeth, 
Till  due  desert  she  find. 

Therefore  from  so  vile  fancy. 

To  call  such  wit  a  frenzy, 

Who  Love  can  temper  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  I 


THOMAS  LODGE  (1556-1625) 
Rosalind's  Madrigal,  from  "Rosalind" 

T   OVE  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 

Doth  suck  his  sweet : 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me. 

Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest: 

Ah!   wanton,  will  ye? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With   pretty   flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The   livelong  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string; 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting: 

Whist,   wanton,   still  ye  I 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence. 
And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  ofifcnce. 
I'll  shut  mine  eyes  to  keep  you  in ; 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin ; 
I'll  count  3'our  power  not  worth  a  pin. 
— Alas !  what  hereby  shall  I  win 

If  he  gainsay  me? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod? 
He  will  rcpaj'-  mn  with  annoy. 

Because  a  god. 


GEORGE  PEEI.E  59 

Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee; 
Then  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee; 
O  Cupid,  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee ! 


GEORGE  PEELE  (1558?-!  597?) 
A  Farewell  to  Arms 

(To   Queen  Elicabcth) 

tFiS  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turned: 

O  Time  too  swift,   O  swiftness  never  ceasing  I 
His  youth  'gainst  time  and  age  hath  ever  spurned. 

But  spurned  in  vain ;  youth  waneth  by  increasing : 
Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but  fading  seen ; 
Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots,  and  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for  bees ; 

And  lovers'  sonnets  turned  to  holy  psalms, 
A  man-at-arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 

And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  Age  his  alms : 
But  though  from  court  to  cottage  he  depart, 
His  Saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart. 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell. 
He'll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a  song, — 
"Blest  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  sovereign  well. 
Curst  be  the  souls  that  think  her  any  wrong." 
Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right 
To  be  your  beadsman  now  that  was  your  knight. 

From  "The  Love  of  King  David  and  Fair 
Bethsahe" 

*r\AVID.    Bright  Bethsabe  shall  wash  in  David's  bower, 

In  water  mixed  with  purest  almost  flower. 
And  bathe  her  beauty  in  the  milk  of  kids ; 
Bright  Bethsabe  gives  earth  to  my  desires. 
Verdure  to  earth,  and  to  that  verdure  flowers. 
To  flowers  sweet  odors,  and  to  odors  wings, 
That  carries  pleasures  to  the  hearts  of  kings. 
*  *  *  *  *  ♦ 

Now  comes  my  lover  tripping  like  the  roe. 
And  brings  my  longings  tangled  in  her  hair. 
To  'joy  her  love  I'll  build  a  kingly  bower. 


60      THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams, 
*rhat,  for  their  homage  to  her  sovereign  joys, 
Shall,  as  the  serpents  fold  into  their  nests, 
In  oblique  turnings  wind  the  nimble  waves 
About  the  circles  of  her  curious  walks, 
And  with  their  murmur  summon  easeful  sleep, 
To  lay  his  golden  sceptre  on  his  brows. 


ROBERT  GREENE  (i56o?-i592) 

Sephestia's  Lullaby 

^l^EEP  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee : 
'     When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 
Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy. 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy; 
When  thy  father  first  did  see 
Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 
He  was  glad,  I  was  woe ; 
Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 
Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee ; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Streaming  tears  that  never  stint, 

Like  pearl-drops  from  a  flint, 

Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes, 

That  one  another's  place  supplies ; 

Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part, 

Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 

Mother  cried,  baby  leapt ; 

More  he  crowed,  more  we  cried, 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide : 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  motlicr,  baby  bliss. 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee ; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 


SAMUEL  DANIEL  61 

SAMUEL  DANIEL  (1562-1619) 
From  "To  Delia" 

"VJ^HEN  men  shall  find  thy  flower,  thy  glory  pass, 

"     And  thou,  with  careful  brow,  sitting  alone, 
Received  hast  this  message  from  thy  glass, 
That  tells  the  truth,  and  says  that  /ill  is  gone; 
Fresh  shalt  thou  see  in  me  the  wounds  thou  madest, 
Though  spent  thy  flame,  in  me  the  heat  remaining: 
I  that  have  loved  thee  thus  before  thou  fadest, 
My  faith  shall  wax,  when  thou  art  in  thy  waning? 
The  world  shall  find  this  miracle  in  me. 
That  fire  can  burn  when  all  the  matter's  spent: 
Then  what  my  faith  hath  been,  thyself  shalt  see. 
And  that  thou  wast  unkind,  thou  may'st  repent ! 
Thou  may'st  repent  that  thou  hast  scorned  my  tears, 
When  Winter  snows  upon  thy  golden  hairs. 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born : 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return  I 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  3^outh: 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn. 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow; 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars. 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 

Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain ; 

And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

HENRY  CONSTABLE  (1562-1613) 

TLJY  Lady's  presence  makes  the  Roses  red. 

Because  to  see  her  lips  they  blush  for  shame. 
The  Lily's  leaves,  for  envy,  pale  became ; 
And  her  white  hands  in  them  this  envy  bred. 
The  Marigold  the  leaves  abroad  doth  spread, 
Because  the  sun's  and  her  power  is  the  same. 
The  Violet  of  purple  color  came, 
Dyed  in  the  blood  she  made  my  heart  to  shed. 

In  brief,  all  fiowers  from  her  their  virtue  take ; 
From  her  sweet  breath  their  sweet  smells  do  proceed; 
The  living  heat,  which  her  eye-beams  do  make, 
Warmeth  the  ground,  and  quickeneth  the  seed. 
The  rain,  wherewith  she  watereth  these  flowers. 
Falls  from  mine  eyes,  which  she  dissolves  in  showers. 


62      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
MICHAEL  DRAYTON  (1563-1631) 

Agincoiirt  {October  25,  141 5) 

PAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 

Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 
Longer  will  tarry ; 

But  putting  to  the  main, 

At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 

With  all  his  martial  train 
Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marchcth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

Unto  him  sending ; 
Which   he   neglects   the    while 
As  from  a  nation  vile. 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then, 
"Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed  : 
Yet  have  v^e  well  begun : 
Battles   so   bravely   won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

"And  for  myself  (quoth  he) 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be : 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me 

Nor  more  esteem  me : 
Victor    I    will    remain 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON  63 

"Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell. 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell : 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than   when   our   grandsire   great 
Claiming  the  regal   seat, 
B3'  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped    the    French    lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vanguard  led ; 
With  the  mr^in  Henry  sped 

Among  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there ; 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen  I 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone, 
Armor  on  armor  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake : 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ! 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  Fren'-h  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long 
That  like  to   serpents   stung. 

Piercing  the  weather ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts. 
And   like  true   English   hearts 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  tTiey  threw, 
And   forth   their  bilbos   drew. 
And  on  the  French  thev  flew, 
Not  one  was  tardv; 


64      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went — 
Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent. 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade. 
And   cruel   slaughter  made 

Still  as  they  ran  up ; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was   this  noble   fray. 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To   England  to  carry. 
O   when  shall   English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 

The  Parting 

OINCE  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  parti 
^  Nay,  I  have  done.     You  get  no  more  of  me ! 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart. 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free. 
Shake  hands  for  ever  I     Cancel  all  pur  vows  I 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE  65 

Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 

When,  his   pulse   failing.   Passion   speechless  lies. 

When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death. 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes : 

Now,  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given  him  over. 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover! 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE  (1564-1593) 
From  "The  Life  and  Death  of  Dr.  Fatistus'* 

■Vt^AS  this  the  face  that  launch'd  a  thousand  ships 
^^     And  burn'd  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium? 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss ! 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul — see  where  it  flies. 
Come,  Helen,  come  give  me  my  soul  again ; 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  these  lips, 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
O  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air. 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars ! 

Chorus  on  the  Death  of  Fatistus 

/^UT  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight, 
^^   And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man: 
Faustus  is  gone  1 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love 

/^OME  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dafles  and  fields, 
Or  woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 


66      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which   from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

The  shepherd  swains   shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  Alay  morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 


WALTER  RALEIGH  (iS52?-i6i8) 

The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate 
Shepherd 

TF  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 

And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  Love. 

But  Time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold ; 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
And    Philomel   becometh    dumb ; 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  Winter  reckoning  yields : 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies. 
Soon  break,  soon  wither, — soon  forgotten 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, — 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  Love. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  67 

But  could  j^outh  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  Love. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  (1564-1616) 

Son^  from  "The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona'* 

T^HO  is  Silvia?     What  is  she? 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness : 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness ; 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Songs  from  "Love's  Labour  Lost'* 


TXT'HEN  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
'        And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue. 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree. 
Mocks  married  men ;  for  thus  sings  he, 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  I 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks, 

When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws, 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks. 

The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree. 

Mocks  married  men ;  for  thus  sings  he, 
Cuckoo ; 


68      THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  1 


When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 

When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  be  foul. 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-who ; 

Tu-whit,  tu-who, — a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw. 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-who ; 

Tu-whit,  tu-who, — a  merry  note. 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

Songs  from   "A  Midsummer-Night' s  Dreatn' 


QVER  hill,  over  dale, 

^"^       Through  bush,  through  brier. 

Over  park,  over  pale, 
Through  flood,  through  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere. 
Swifter  than  the  moone's   sphere; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green  : 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors. 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here. 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

n 

You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen ; 

Newts  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  09 

Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;   lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  I 
Never  harm, 
Nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
Sc,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence! 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near ; 

Worm  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,   lulla,  lullaby;   lulla,  lulla.  lullaby  I 

Never  harm, 

Nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 


Songs  from  ^'As  You  Like  It** 


JTNDER  the  greenwood  tree. 
^   Who  loves  to  He  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets,  ^ 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


II 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 


70      THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSIi: 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho !  sing  heigh-ho  1  unto  the  green  holly ; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,    heigh-ho,    the   holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly! 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot : 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh-ho !  sing  heigh-ho !  unto  the  green  holly ; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly  I 


m 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time. 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

How  that  life  was  but  a  flower 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

And,  therefore,  take  the  present  time 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  71 

Sotiff  from  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing'* 

CIGH  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore; 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go. 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  moe 

Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy; 
The   fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy. 
Then  sigh  not  so. 
But  let  them  go. 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 


Song  from  "Hamlet** 

jLJOW  should  I  your  true  love  know 
'■•'■      From  another  one? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff. 
And  his  sandal  shoon. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady. 

He  is  dead  and  gone ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf. 

At  his  heels  a  stone. 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 
Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers, 

Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go 
With  true-love  showers. 


Song  from  "Twelfth  Night** 

f\  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
^^^    O  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  Love's  coming, 
That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  Sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 


72      THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty: 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 


Songs  from  "Measure  for  Measure' 


'T'AKE,  O  take  those  lips  away, 
**"  That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn ; 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again,  bring  again ; 
Sealed  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain,  sealed  in  vain. 


Hide,  O  hide  those  hills  of  snow, 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  April  wears ! 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 


Songs  from  "Cymheline' 


TJARK,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 
•*•  And  Phoebus  'gins  arise.  _ 

His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes : 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise : 
Arise,  arise. 


Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

Second  stanca  from  "The  Btoodv  Brother," 

John  Fletcher   (1570-1625) 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  73 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak: 

The  scepter,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan: 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

Son0  from  "The  Winter's  Tale" 

■^l^HEN  daffodils  begin  to  peer, 

'^        With  heigh  I  the  doxy,  over  the  dale, 
Why,  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o*  the  year ; 
For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 

The  M'hite  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge, 

W?[h  heigh!  the  sweet  birds,  O  how  they  sing! 

Doth  set  my  pugging  tooth  on  edge ; 
For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 

The  lark,  that  tirra-lirra  chants. 

With  heigh !  with  heigh  I  the  thrush  and  the  jay, 
Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 

While  we  He  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

Songs  frovi  "The  Tempest** 


^OME  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Court'sied  when  you  have,  and  kissed,- 

The  wild  waves  whist. — 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And.  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark,  hark ! 
Bow,  wow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark: 
Bow,  wow. 


74      THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Hark,  hark  !     I  hear 
The  strain  of  strnttuig  chanticleer 
Cry,   Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 

II 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily : 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ; 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade. 

But  doth  suflfer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 
Hark!  now  I  hear  them, — 
Ding,  dong,  Bell. 


From  "The  Passionate  Pilgrim* 

(]]RABBED  Age  and  Youth 

Cannot  live  together: 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care ; 
Youth  like  summer  morn. 
Age  like  winter  weather; 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 
Age  like  winter  bare. 
Youth  is  full  of  sport. 
Age's  health  is  short ; 
Youth  is  nimble.  Age  is  lame ; 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 
Age  is  weak  and  cold ; 
Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame. 
Age,  I  do  abhor  thee : 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee ; 
O,  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young! 
Age,  I  do  defy  thee : 
O,  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee ! 
For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  75 

From   I  lie   "Sonnets" 


\^HEN,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope. 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee :  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate : 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste; 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow. 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancelled  woe. 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight: 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The   sad  account  of   fore-bemoaned   moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before: 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 


Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye. 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy. 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace : 
Fven  so  mv  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all-triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow; 
But  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 


76      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 

LV 

Not  marble,  nor  the  pilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme ; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 
Than  unswept  stone,  besmear'd  with  sluttish  time. 
When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry. 
Nor  Mars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall  burn 
The  living  record  of  your  memory. 
'Gainst  death  and   all-oblivious   enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth ;  your  praise  shall  still  find  room 
Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 


Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore, 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light. 
Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crowned, 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth, 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow : 
And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall  stand 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

LXXIII 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadcth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away. 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  77 

In  me  thoti  see'st  the  glowinp:  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 
strong 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

CIV 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old; 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed, 
Such  seems  your  beauty  still.    Three  Winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  Summers'  pride; 
Three  beauteous  Springs  to  yellow  Autumn  turned 
In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burned, 
Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 
Ah !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived ; 
So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived : 
For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred: 
Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty's  Summer  dead. 


When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights; 
Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all.  you  prefiguring; 
And,  for  they  looked  but  with  divining  eyes. 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing: 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

cxvi 

Let  rne  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 

O,  no!  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken ; 


78      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom: 

If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth — 
My  sinful  earth  these  rebel  powers  arra}"^ — 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward   walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease. 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge?     Is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store ; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more : 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men ; 

And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 

From  "The  Merchant  of  Venice" 

I 

nPHE  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd ; 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath.     It  is  twice  blessed ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crovn  : 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  pow'r, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings. 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway; 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings; 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 

That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation:  we  do  pray  for  mercy; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  79 


How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  I 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica ;  look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ej^ed  cherubins ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it.  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Therefore,  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods; 
Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and   full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

From  "Romeo  and  Juliet" 

r\  then,  I  see  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 

^^^    She  is  the  fairies'  midwife,  and  she  comes 

In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 

On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman. 

Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies, 

Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep: 

Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners*  legs; 

The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers ; 

Her  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 

Her  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  wat'ry  beams ; 

Her  whip,  of  cricket's  bone;  the  lash,  of  film; 

Her  wagoner,  a  small  grey-coated  gnat. 

Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm, 

Prick'd  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid : 

Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut. 

Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 

Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers. 

And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night. 

Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love; 

O'er  courtiers*  knees,  that  dream  on  courtsies  straight; 

O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees : 


80      THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream, 
Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweetmeats  tainted  are. 
Sometimes  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit : 
And  sometimes  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  a'  lies  asleep, 
Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice ! 
Sometimes  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats. 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,   Spanish  blades, 
Of  healths  live  fathom  deep ;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts  and  wakes ; 
And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  a  prayer  or  two, 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab 
That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night ; 
And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hairs, 
Which  once  untangled,  much  misfortune  bodes. 


From  "Henry  V" 

f\  for  a  Muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 

^"^    The  brightest  heaven  of  invention, 

A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act 

And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene! 

Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself, 

Assume  the  port  of  Mars ;  and  at  his  heels, 

Leash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword  and  fire 

Crouch  for  employment. 


From  "As  You  Like  If 

A  LL  the  world's  a  stage, 

■^  And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players ; 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances, 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts. 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant. 
Mewling  and  puking  in  his  nurse's  arms : 
Then  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eye-brow.     Then,  a  soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel ; 
Seeking  the  bubble   reputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.     And  then,  the  justice, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  81 

In  fair  round  belly,  with  ,e:ood  capon  lined, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon, 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 
His  youthful  hose  well  sav'd,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank;  and  his  bis  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  towards  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all. 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion : 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

From  "Hamlet" 

'T'O  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question — 

Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And,  by  opposing,  end  them.    To  die — to  sleep 

No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 

The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  heir  to ! — 'tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die — to  sleep 

To   sleep  ! — perchance  to   dream  ! — ay,  there's   the   rub ; 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come. 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Must  give  us  pause — there's  the  respect 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life: 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 

The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  th'  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin !     Who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death 

(That  undiscover'd  country  from  whose  bourn 

No  traveller  returns)  puzzles  the  will. 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought, 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 

With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


82      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
From  "Measure  for  Measure^' 

AY,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where; 
■^^  To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice ; 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  rovmd  about 
The  pendant  world ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling :   'tis  too  horrible ! 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life, 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment, 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death. 


From  "Antony  and  Cleopatra" 

'T^HE  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 

Burn'd  on  the  water :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold ; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them ;  the  oars  were  silver. 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke  and  made 
The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster. 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.    For  her  own  person, 
It  beggar'd  all  description :  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion,  cloth-of-gold  of  tissue, 
O'er-picturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature :  on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  divers-color'd  fans,  whose  vv'ind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  checks  which  they  did  cool, 
And  what  they  undid  did. 


From  "The  JFinter's  Tale" 

.  .  .  O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  tliat  frighted  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon  I  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
On  Cytherea's  breath;  pale  primroses 


THOMAS  CAMPION  83 

That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids  ;  bold  oxlips  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  I 


From  "The  Tempest" 

#^UR  revels  now  are  ended:  these  our  actors. 

As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air ; 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind !    We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 


THOMAS  CAMPION   (1567-1620) 

Follow  Your  Saint 

"E^OLLOW  your  saint,  follow  with  accents  sweet ! 

Haste  you,  sad  notes,  fall  at  her  flying  feet ! 
There,  wrapped  in  cloud  of  sorrow,  pity  move. 
And  tell  the  ravisher  of  my  soul  I  perish  for  her  love : 
But,  if  she  scorns  my  never-ceasing  pain. 
Then  burst  with  sighing  in  her  sight  and  ne'er  return  again. 

All  that  I  sang  still  to  her  praise  did  tend. 

Still  she  was  first,  still  she  my  songs  did  end ; 

Yet  she  my  love  and  music  both  doth  fly, 

The  music  that  her  echo  is  and  beauty's  sympathy: 

Then  let  my  notes  pursue  her  scornful  flight! 

It  shall  suffice  that  they  were  breathed  and  died  for  her  delight. 


Vohisciim  est  lope 

TI^HEN  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground. 

And  there  arrived  a  new  admired  guest, 
The  beauteous   spirits  do  engirt  thee  round. 
White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 
To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finished  love 
From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can  move; 


84       THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights, 

Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make. 

Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  knights, 

And  all  these  triumphs   for  thy  beauty's  sake : 

When  thou  hast  told  these  honors  done  to  thee. 

Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me ! 


Cherry -Ripe 

*  I  ■'HERE  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow ; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow: 

There  cherries  grow  which  none  may  buy 
Till  "Cherry-ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 
Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 
They  look  like  rose-buds  filled  with  snow; 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy 
Till  "Cherry-ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still : 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand. 
Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt  with  eye  or  hand 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  "Cherry-ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 


Winter  Nights 

^[OW  winter  nights  enlarge 

The  number  of  their  hours. 
And  clouds  their  storms  discharge 
Upon  the  airy  towers. 
Let  now  the  chimneys  blaze, 
And  cups  o'erflow  with  wine ; 
Let  well-tuned  words  amaze 
With  harmony  divine. 
Now  yellow  waxen  lights 
Shall  wait  on  honey  love. 

While  youthful  revels,  masques,  and  courtly  sights 
Sleep's  leaden  spells  remove. 
This  time  doth  well  dispense 


THOMAS  CAMPION  85 

With  lovers'  long  discourse ; 

Much   speech  hath  some   defence 

Though  beauty  no  remorse. 

All  do  not  all  things  well ; 

Some  measures  comely  tread, 

Some  knotted   riddles  tell, 

Some  poems  smoothly  read. 

The  summer  hath  his  joys 

And  winter  his  delights ; 

Though  love  and  all  his  pleasures  are  but  toys, 

They  shorten  tedious  nights. 


AmarilUs 

T  care  not  for  these  ladies, 

That  must  be  wooed  and  prayed : 
Give  me  kind  Amarillis, 
The  wanton   countrymaid. 
Nature  art  disdaineth, 
Her  beauty  is  her  own. 
Her  when  we  court  and  kiss, 
She  cries.  Forsooth,  let  go ! 
But  when  we  come  where  comfort  is. 
She  never  will  say  No. 

H  I  love  Amarillis, 

She  gives  me  fruit  and  flowers : 

But  if  we  love  these  ladies, 

We  must  give  golden  showers. 

Give  them  gold,  that  sell  love. 

Give  me  the  Nut-brown  lass. 

Who,  when  we  court  and  kiss, 

She  cries.  Forsooth,  let  go : 

But  when  we  come  where  comfort  is. 

She  never  will  say  No. 

These  ladies  must  have  pillows. 

And  beds  by  strangers  wrought; 

Give  me  a  bower  of  willows. 

Of  moss  and  leaves  unbought. 

And   fresh   Amarillis, 

With  milk  and  honey  fed ; 

Who,  when  we  court  and  kiss. 

She  cries,  Forsooth,  let  go : 

But  when  we  come  where  comfort  is. 

She  never  will  say  No ! 


86       THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
SIR  HENRY  WOTTON  (1568-1639) 
Elizabeth  of  Bohemia 

'VOU  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light, 

You  common  people  of  the  skies ; 

What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood, 

That  warble  forth  Dame  Nature's  lays, 

Thinking   your    passions    understood 

By  your  weak  accents ;  what's  your  praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise? 

You  violets  that  first  appear. 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year. 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own ; 
What  are  you  when  the  rose  is  blown? 

So,  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind. 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen, 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  designed 
Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind. 

The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life 

XJOW  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 

That  serveth  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought. 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill  I 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are ; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death. 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  by  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise. 
Nor  vice ;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed; 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 


THOAIAS  DEKKER  87 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 

And  entertains   the  harmless  day 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend ; 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall: 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


THOMAS  DEKKER  ( 1570-1641) 
The  Happy  Heart,  from  "Patient  Grissell" 

A  RT  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 

O  sweet  content ! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed 

O   punishment! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers? 
O  sweet  content !     O  sweet,  O  sweet  content ! 
Work   apace,   apace,   apace,   apace ; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 
Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring? 

O  sweet  content ! 
Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears  ? 

O    punishment! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king! 
O  sweet  content !     O  sweet,  O  sweet  content  \ 
Work  apace,   apace,   apace,   apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny I 

From  "The  Honest  JVhore" 

PATIENCE!  why,  'tis_  the  soul  of  peace: 

Of  all  the  virtues,  'tis  nearest  kin  to  heaven: 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.     The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit : 
The   first  true  gentleman   that  ever  breath'd. 


88      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
The  Old  and  Young  Courtier 

AN  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 

•^  ^  Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman,  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's, 

And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 


With  an  old  lady,  whose  anger  one  word  assuages ; 
They  every  quarter  paid  their  old  servants  their  wages. 
And  never  knew  what  belonged  to  coachmen,   footmen,  nor 

pages. 
But  kept  twenty  old  fellows  with  blue  coats  and  badges ; 
Like  an  old  courtier  .  .  . 


With  an  old  study  filled  full  of  learned  old  books ; 

With  an  old  reverend  chaplain — you  might  know  him  by  his 

looks ; 
With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks ; 
And  an  old  kitchen,  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks ; 
Like  an  old  courtier  .  .  . 


With  an  old  hall,  hung  about  with  pikes,  guns,  and  bows, 
With  old  swords  and  bucklers,  that  had  borne  many  shrewd 

blows ; 
And  an  old  frieze  coat,  to  cover  his  worship's  trunk  hose ; 
A  cup  of  old  sherry,  to  comfort  his  copper  nose ; 
Like  an  old  courtier  .  .  . 


With  a  good  old  fashion,  when  Christmas  was  come, 
To  call  in  all  his  old  neighbors  with  bagpipe  and  drum, 
With  good  cheer  enough  to  furnish  every  old  room. 
And  old  liquor  able  to  make  a  cat  speak,  and  man  dumb; 
Like  an  old  courtier  ,  .  . 


With  an  old  falconer,  huntsmen,  and  a  kennel  of  hounds, 
That  never  hawked,  nor  hunted,  but  in  his  own  grounds ; 
Who,  like  a  wise  man,  kept  himself  within  his  own  bounds, 
And  when  he  died,  gave  every  child  a  thousand  good  pounds ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's, 

And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 

{Attributed  to  Dekker.) 


BEN  JONSON  89 

BEN  JONSON  (1573-1637) 
From  "Cynthia's  Revels" 

OUEEN  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair. 
State   in   wonted   manner   keep: 
Hesperus   entreats   thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose ; 

Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear,  when  day  did  close; 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 

Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever : 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


From  "The  Forest" 

T^RINK  to  me  only  w-ith  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not .  change  for  thine. 


I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe. 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  theel 


90       THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Simplex  Miinditiis 

CTILL  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest. 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast; 
Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed: 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 
Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found. 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free: 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

From  "Love's  Chariof 

JJAVE  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver. 

Or   swan's    down    ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  of  the  brier. 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 
O  so  white,  O  so  soft,  O  so  sweet  is  she ! 

From  "An  Ode  to  Sir  Lucius  Gary  and  Sir  H. 

AI orris  on" 

¥T  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear: 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see. 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

From  an  Epithalamium 

TTP,  youths  and  virgins,  up  and  praise 
^    The  god,  whose  nights  outshine  his  days; 
Hymen,  whose  hallow'd  rites 


BEN  JONSON  91 

Could  never  boast  of  brighter  lights ; 

Whose  hands  pass  liberty. 
Two  of  your  troop,  that  with  the  moon  were  free, 
Are  now  waged  to  his  war. 

And  what  they  are, 
If  you'll  perfection  see. 
Yourselves  must  be. 
Shine,   Hesperus,   shine   forth,   thou   wished   star. 

What  joy,  what  honors  can  compare 

With  holy  nuptials,  when  they  are 

Made  out  of  equal  parts 
Of  years,  of  states,  of  hands,  of  hearts  1 

When  in  the  happy  choice 

The  spouse  and  spoused  have  foremost  voice  I 
Such,  glad  of  Hymen's  war. 

Live  what  they  are, 
And  long  perfection  see; 
And  such  ours  be. 
Shine,  Hesperus,   shine   forth,  thou  wished  star. 

On  the  Portrait  of  Shakespeare  Prefixed  to  the 

First  Folio  Edition,  1623 

T^HIS  figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put, 
It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut ; 
Wherein  the  Graver  had  a  strife 
With    Nature   to   outdo   the   life : 
O,  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass,   as  he  hath  hit 
His  face ;  the  Print  would  then  surpass 
All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass. 
But  since  he  cannot.  Reader,  look 
Not  at  his  picture,  but  his  book. 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved  Master  TFilUam 
Shakespeare,  and  What  He  Flath  Left  Us 

[1564-1616] 

'X'O  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name. 

Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  Man.  nor  Muse,  can  praise  too  much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise ; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 


92      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 

The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance; 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 

And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 

These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd  or  whore 

Should  praise  a  matron.    What  could  hurt  her  more? 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 

Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 

I  therefore  will  begin:    Soul  of  the  age! 

The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage  1 

My  Shakespeare^  rise !  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room : 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 

And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live 

And  we  have  wits  to  read  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 

I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned  Muses ; 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line, 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honor  thee,  I  would  not  seek 

For  names ;  but  call   forth  thundering  ^schylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us ; 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him   of  Cordova  dead. 

To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread. 

And  shake  a  stage ;  or,  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time ! 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm  ! 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines! 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit, 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  Art 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and,  that  he 


JOHN  DONNE  93 

Who  casts  to  write  a  Hvinp:  line,  must  sweat, 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same 

(And  himself  with  it)  that  he  thinks  to  frame, 

Or,  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn  ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou !     Look  how  the   father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well-turned,  and  true-filed  lines  ; 

In   each   of  which   he   seems  to   shake   a  lance. 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon!  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear. 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there ! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage 

Or  influence,  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage. 

Which,    since   thy   flight   from   hence,   hath   mourned 

like  night. 
And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 

JOHN  DONNE  (1573-1631) 

The  Good  Morrow 

T  wonder,  by  my  troth,  what  thou  and  T 

Did  till  we  loved !    Were  we  not  weaned  till  then. 
But  sucked  on  country  pleasures  childishly? 

Or  snorted  we  in  the  Seven  Sleepers'  den? 
*Twas  so ;  but  thus  all  pleasures  fancies  be. 
If  ever  any  beauty  I  did  see, 
Which  I  desired  and  got, — 'twas  but  a  dream  of  thee. 

And,  now,  good  morrow  to  our  waking  souls, 
Which  watch  not  one  another  out  of  fear ; 

For  Love  all  love  of  other  sights  controls. 
And  makes  one  little  room  an  everywhere. 

Let  sea-discoverers  to  new  worlds  be  gone : 

Let  maps  to  other  worlds  our  world  have  shown ; 

Let  us  possess  one  world ;  each  hath  one,  and  is  one. 

My  face  in  thine  eye,  thine  in  mine  appears. 
And  true  plain  hearts  do  in  the  faces  rest. 

Where  can  we  find  two  fitter  hemispheres, 

Without  sharp  North,  without  declining  West? 

Whatever  dies  was  not  mixed  equally; 

If  our  two  loves  be  one,  or  thou  and  I 

Love  so  alike  that  none  do  slacken,  none  can  die. 


94      THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Absence 

That  Time  and  Absence  proves 
Rather  helps  than  hurts  to  loves. 

A  BSENCE,  hear  thou  my  protestation 

^^  Against  thy  strength, 
Distance  and  length : 

Do  what  thou  canst  for  alteration, 
For  hearts  of  truest  mettle 
Absence  doth  join  and  Time  doth  settle. 

Who  loves  a  mistress  of  such  quality, 

His  mind  hath  found 

Affection's   ground 
Beyond  time,  place,  and  all  mortality. 

To  hearts  that  cannot  vary 

Absence  is  present,  Time  doth  tarry. 

My  senses  want  their  outward  motion 

Which  now   within 

Reason  doth   win. 
Redoubled  by  her  secret  notion : 

Like  rich  men  that  take  their  pleasure 

In  hiding  more  than  handling  treasure. 

By  Absence  this  good  means  I  gain, 

That  I  can  catch  her 

Where  none  can  watch  her, 
In  some  close  corner  of  my  brain: 

There  I  embrace  and  kiss  her. 

And  so  enjoy  her  and  none  miss  her. 


The  Dream 

■ff^KAR  love,  for  nothing  less  than  thee 
^^^  Would  I  have  broke  this  happy  dream, 

It  was  a  theme 
For  reason,  much  too  strong  for  fantasy. 
Therefore  thou  waked'st  me  wisely;  yet 
ATy  dream  thou  brok'st  not,  but  continued'st  it. 
Thou   art  so  true   that   thoughts   of   thee   suffice 
To  make  dreams  truths   and   fables  histories ; 
Enter  these  arms,  for  since  thou  thought'st  it  best 
Not  to  dream  all  my  dream,  let's  act  the  rest.  .  .  . 

Abridged. 


JOHN  DONNE  95 

A  Valediction  Forbidding  Mourning 

A  S  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away, 

And  whisper  to  their  souls  to  go: 
Whilst  some  of  their  sad  friends  do  say, 
The  breath  goes  now — and  some  say,  no ; 

So   let  us  melt,   and   make   no  noise. 
No  tear-floods,  nor  sigh-tempests  move ; 
'Twere  profanation  of  our  joys 
To  tell  the  laity  our  love. 

Moving  of  th'  earth  brings  harms  and  fears, 
Men  reckon  what  it  did,  and  meant; 
But  trepidation  of  the  spheres, 
Though  greater  far,  is  innocent. 

Dull,  sublunary  lovers'  love — 
Whose  soul  is  sense — cannot  admit 
Absence,  because  it  doth  remove 
Those  things  which  alimented  it. 

But  we're  by  love   so  much  refined, 
That  ourselves  know  not  what  it  is ; 
Inter-assured  of  the  mind, 
Careless  eyes,  lips,  and  hands  to  miss. 

Our  two  souls,  therefore,  (which  are  one) 
Though  I  must  go,  endure  not  yet 
A  breach,   but   an   expansion. 
Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat. 

If  they  be  two,  they  are  two  so 

As  stiff  thin  compasses  are  two; 

Thy  soul,  the  fix'd  foot,  makes  no  show 

To  move,  but  doth,  if  th'  other  do. 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 
Yet  when  the  other  far  doth  roam, 
It  leans,  and  hearkens  after  it. 
And  grows  erect  as  that  comes  home. 

Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must, 
Like  th'  other  foot,  obliquely  run ; 
Thy  firmness  makes  my  circles  just, 
And  makes  me  end  where  I  begun. 


96       THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  Funeral 

TX/'HOEVER  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm 

'*     Nor  question  much 
That  subtle  wreath  of  hair  about  mine  arm ; 
The  mystery,  the  sign  you  must  not  touch, 

For  'tis  my  outward  soul. 
Viceroy  to  that  which,  unto  heav'n  being  gone. 

Will  leave  this  to  control 
And  keep  these  limbs,  her  provinces,   from  dissolution. 

For  if  the  sinewy  thread  my  brain  lets  fall 

Through  every  part 
Can  tie  those  parts,  and  make  me  one  of  all ; 
Those  hairs,  which  upward  grew,  and  strength  and  art 

Have  from  a  better  brain, 
Can  better  do't :  except  she  meant  that  I 

By  this  should  know  my  pain. 
As   prisoners    then   are   manacled,    when   they're   condemned 
to  die. 

Whate'er  she  meant  by't,  bury  it  with  me. 

For  since  I  am 
Love's  martyr,  it  might  breed  idolatry 
If  into  oiher  hands  these  reliques  came. 

As  'twas  humility 
'T  afford  to  it  ail  that  a  soul  can  do. 

So  'tis  some  bravery 
That,  since  you  would  have  none  of  me,  I  bury  some  of  you. 

Song 

f^O  and  catch  a  falling  star, 

^^       Get  with  child  a  mandrake  root. 

Tell  me  where  all  past  years  are. 

Or  who  cleft  the  Devil's  foot; 
Teach  me  to  hear  mermaid's  singing, 
Or  to  keep  off  envy's  stinging. 

And   find 

What  wind 
Serves  to  advance  an  honest  mind. 

If  thou  be'st  borr>  to  strange  sights, 

Things  invisible  go  see, 
Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights 

Till  Age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee ; 
Thou,  when  thou  return'st,  wilt  tell  me 
All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee, 
And  swear 
No  where 
Lives  a  woman  true  and  fair. 


RICHARD  BARNFIELD  97 

If  thou  find'st  one,  let  me  know; 
Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet. 
Yet  do  not :  I  would  not  go, 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet. 
Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her, 
And  last  till  you  write  your  letter, 
Yet  she 
Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three. 

From  "Epithalamion" 

'T'HE  sunbeams  in  the  east  are  spread: 

Leave,  leave,  fair  bride,  your  solitary  bed! 

No  more  shall  you  return  to  it  alone, 

It  nurseth  sadness ;  and  your  body's  print 

Like  to  a  grave  the  yielding  down  doth  dint. 
You  and  your  other  you  meet  there  anon : 
Put  forth,  put  forth  that  warm  balm-breathing  thigh, 

Which,  when  next  time  you  in  these  sheets  will  smother, 
There  it  must  meet  another. 

Which  never  was,  but  must  be  oft  more  nigh. 

Come  glad   from  thence,  go  gladder  than  you  came: 

To-day  put  on  perfection,  and  a  woman's  name. 

Daughters  of  London,  you  which  be 

Our  golden  mines  and  furnished  treasury: 

You  which  are  angels,  yet  still  bring  with  you 
Thousands  of  angels  on  your  marriage  days ; 
Help  with  your  presence,  and  devise  to  praise 

These  rites,  which  also  unto  you  grow  due. 
Conceitedly  dress  her;  and  be  assigned 
By  you  fit  place  for  every  flower  and  jewel; 

Make  her  for  love  fit  fuel. 

As  gay  as  Flora  and  as  rich  as  Inde: 
So  may  she  fair  and  rich,  in  nothing  lame 
To-day  put  on  perfection,  and  a  woman's  name.  .  .  , 

RICHARD  BARNFIELD   (i 574-1627) 
Philomel 

A  S  it  fell  upon  a  day 
■^  Tn  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts   did  leap  and  birds   did  sing. 
Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring; 


98      THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

E\'erything  did   banish  moan 

Save  the   Nightingale  alone : 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn 

Leaned  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn, 

And  there  sung  the  doleful'st  ditty. 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie!  now  would  she  cry; 

Tcrcit,  Tcrcu !  by  and  by ; 

That  to  hear  her  so  complain 

Scarce  I  could   from  tears  refrain; 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah  !  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain, 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain : 

Senseless  trees  they  cannot  hear  thee. 

Ruthless  beasts  they  will  not  cheer  thee; 

King  Pandion  he  is  dead, 

All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead; 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 

Careless   of   thy   sorrowing: 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee. 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 


JOHN  FLETCHER  (1579-1625) 
Love's  EiJiblems,  from  "Valentinian' 

"NTOW  the  lusty  spring  is  seen; 
Golden  yellow,  gaudy  blue. 
Daintily  invite  the  view : 
Everywhere  on  every  green 
Roses   blushing  as   they  blow, 

And  enticing  men  to  pull, 
Lilies  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Woodbines  of  sweet  honey  full: 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
"Ladies,  if  not  plucked,  we  die." 

Yet  the  lusty  spring  hath  stayed ; 

Blushing  red  and  purest  white 

Daintily  to  love  invite 
Every  woman,  every  maid : 
Cherries  kissing  as  they  grow, 

And  inviting  men  to  taste. 
Apples   even   ripe  below. 

Winding  gently  to  the  waist : 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
"Ladies,  if  not  plucked,  we  die." 


JOHN  WEBSTER  99 

Melancholy,  from  "The  Nice  Valor'* 

TJENCK,  all  you  vain  delights. 
As  short  as  are  the  nijjhts. 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly: 
There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet 
If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy, 

O   sweetest  Melancholy! 
Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound ! 

Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls! 

A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan ! 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon ; 

Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley; 

Nothing  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 

God  Laiis 

/^OD  Lasus,  ever  young, 

Ever  honor'd,  ever  sung, 
Stain'd   with  blood   of   lusty  grapes, 
In  a  thousand  lusty  shapes 
Dance  upon  the  mazer's  brim. 
In   the   crimson    liquor    swim ; 
From    thy   plenteous    hand    divine 
Let  a  river  run   with    wine : 

God  of  youth,  let  this  day  here 

Enter  neither  care  nor   fear. 


JOHN   WEBSTER    (i58o?-i625?) 
^  Dirge,  from  "The  White  Devil" 

^ALL  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 

Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 


100    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 

To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 

And  (when  gray  tombs  are  robbed)  sustain  no  harm; 

But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men, 

For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 


Vanitas  Vanitatiim 

A  LL  the  flowers  of  the  spring 
"^  Meet  to  perfume  our  burying; 
These  have  but  their  growing  prime. 
And  man  does  flourish  but  his  time : 
Survey  our  progress  from  our  birth — 
We  are  set,  we  grow,  we  turn  to  earth» 
Courts  adieu,  and  all  delights, 
All  bewitching  appetites ! 
Sweetest  breath  and  clearest  eye 
Like  perfumes  go  out  and  die ; 
And  consequently  this  is  done 
As  shadows  wait  upon  the  sun. 
Vain  the  ambition  of  kings 
Who  seek  by  trophies  and  dead  things 
To  leave  a  living  name  behind. 
And  weave  but  nets  to  catch  the  wind 


RICHARD  CORBET  (1582-1635) 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies 

p*AREWELL,  rewards  and  fairies ! 
Good  housewives  now  may  say. 
For  now  foul  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they. 
And  though  they  sweep  their  hearts  no  less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  do, 
Yet  who  of  late,  for  cleanliness, 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe? 

Lament,  lament,  old  abbeys. 

The  fairies'  lost  command ! 
They  did  but  change  priests'  babies. 

But  some  have  changed  your  land ; 
And  all  your  children  sprung  from  thence, 

Are   now  grown   Puritanes ; 
Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since. 

For   love   of  your   demains. 


WILLIAM  BASSE  101 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both 

You  merry  were  and  glad ; 
So  little  care  of  sleep  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had ; 
When  Tom  came  home   from  labor. 

Or  Ciss  to  milking  rose, 
Then  merrily  merrily  went  their  tabor 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain  ; 
But  since  of   late,   Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James  came  in. 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

By  which  we  note  the  fairies 

Were  of  the  old  profession  ; 
Their  songs  were  Ave-Maries, 

Their  dances  were  procession. 
But  now,  alas !  they  all  are  dead, 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas ; 
Or  farther  for  religion  fled ; 

Or  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A  tell-tale  in  their  company 

They  never  could  endure ; 
And  whoso  kept  not  secretly 

Their  mirth,  was  punished  sure; 
It  was  a  just  and  Christian  deed 

To  pinch  such  black  and  blue: 
Oh,  how  the  Commonwealth  doth  need 

Such  justices  as  you! 

WILLIAM  BASSE  (1583-1653) 

DENOWNED  Spenser,  lie  a  thought  more  nigh 

•^  To  learned  Chaucer,  and  rare  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  nearer  Spenser,  to  make  room 

For  Shakespeare  in  your  threefold,  fourfold  Tomb. 

To  lodge  all  four  in  one  bed  make  a  shift 

Until  Doomsday,  for  hardly  will  a  fifth 

Betwixt  this  day  and  that  by  Fate  be  slain 

For  whom  your  curtains  may  be  drawn  again. 

If  your  precedency  in   death   doth  bar 

A  fourth  place  in  your  sacred  sepulchre. 

Under  this  carved  marble  of  thine  own, 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


102    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Sleep,  rare  Tragedian,  Shakespeare,  sleep  alone. 
Thy   unmolested   peace,   unshared    Cave, 
Possess  as  Lord,  not  Tenant,  of  thy  Grave, 
That  unto  us  and  others  it  may  be 
Honor  hereafter  to  be  laid  by  thee. 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND,  OF  HAWTHORNDEN 
(1585-1649) 

Ifivocation 

pHGEBUS,  arise, 

■■■  _  And  paint  the  sable  skies 

With  azure,  white  and  red : 

Rouse   Memnon's  mother   from  her  Tithon's  bed, 

That  she  thy  career  may  with  roses  spread : 

The  nightingales  tliy  coming  each  where  sing, 

Make  an  eternal  Spring ! 

Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth  dead; 

Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 

In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 

And,  emperor-like,   decora 

With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair: 

Chase  hence  the  ugly  night. 

Which  serves  but  to  make  dear  thy  glorious  light. 

This  is  that  happy  morn, 

That  day,  long- wished  day, 

Of  all  my  life  so  dark, 

(If  cruel  stars  have  not  my  ruin  sworn. 

And  fates  not  hope  betraj',) 

Which,   only  white,  deserves 

A  diamond  for  ever  should  it  mark. 

This  is  the  morn  should  bring  unto  this  grove 

My  Love,  to  hear  and  recompense  my  love. 

Fair  king,  who  all  preserves. 

But  show  thy  blushing  beams. 

And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 

Shalt  see,  than  those  which  by  Peneus'  streams 

Did  once  thy  heart  surprise. 

Nay,  suns,  which  shine  as  clear 

As  thou,  when  two  thou  didst  to  Rome  appear. 

Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise: 

If  that  ye,  winds,  would  hear 

A  voice  surpassing  far  Amphion's  lyre, 

Your  stormy  chiding  stay; 

Let  Zephyr  only  breathe. 

And  with  her  tresses  play. 

Kissing  sometimes  these  purple  ports  of  death. 


FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  103 

— The  winds  all  silent  are, 

And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 

Ensafifroning  sea   and   air, 

Makes  vanish  every  star : 

Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond  the  hills,  to  shun  his  flaming  wheels : 

The  fields  with  flowers  are  decked  in  every  hue, 

The  clouds  bespangle  with  bright  gold  their  blue : 

Here  is  the  pleasant  place, 

And  everything  save  her,  who  all  should  grace. 

Sonnet 

T  KNOW  that  all  the  moon  decays, 

And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought 
In  Time's  great  periods,  shall  return  to  nought; 
The  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days. 
I  know  that  all  the  Muse's  heavenly  lays 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought. 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought. 
That  there   is   nothing  lighter   than  vain   praise. 
I  know  frail  beauty  like  the  purple  flower. 
To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and  death  aflfords, 
That  love  a  jarring  is  of  mind's  accords. 
Where  sense  and  will  bring  under  Reason's  power: 
Know  what  I  list,  all  this  cannot  me  move, 
But  that  alas !  I  both  must  write  and  love. 


FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  (1586-1615) 

Fi-om  Letter  to  Ben  Jonson 

■jVTETHINKS  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost 

Since  I  saw  you :  for  wit  is  like  a  rest 
Set  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best, 
With  the  best  gamesters :  what  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid ;  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame. 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  soul  in  a  jest, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life:  then  when  there  had  been  thrown 
Wit  able  enough  to  justify  the  town 
For  three  days  past ;  wit  that  might  warrant  be 
For  the  whole  city  to  talk  foolishly 
Till  that  were  cancelled;  and  when  that  was  gone, 
We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 
Was  able  to  make  the  next  two  companies 
Right  witty;  though  but  downright  fools  were  wise. 


104    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER 
Aspatia's  So7ig 

¥   AY  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear ; 
Say,   I   died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 

From  my  hour  of  birth. 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth ! 

THOMAS   CAREW    (1587-1639) 
Song 

A  SK  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
■^  When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  j'our  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when   May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  Might 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  Phcenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies,  _ 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

Epitaph 

nPHE  Lady  Mary  Villiers  lies 
■^     Under  this  stone:  with  weeping  eyes 
The  parents  that  first  gave  her  breath. 
And  their  sad  friends,  laid  her  in  earth. 


GEORGE  WITHER  105 

If  any  of  them,  reader,  were 
Known  nnto  thee,  shed  a  tear: 
Or  if  thj^self  possess  a  gem, 
As  dear  to  thee  as  this  to  them ; 
Though  a  stranger  to  this  place, 
Bewail  in  theirs  thine  own  hard  case; 
For  thou  perhaps  at  thy  return 
Mayst  find  thy  darling  in  an  urn. 


GEORGE  WITHER  (1588-1667) 
The  Lover's  Resolution 

CHALL  I,  wasting  in  despair. 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  thinks  not  well  of  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

Shall  my  silly  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind? 
Or  a  well  disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican. 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best, 

If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 
She  that  bears  a  noble  mind. 
If  not  outward  helps  she  find. 
Thinks  what  with  them  he  would  do 
That  without  them  dares  her  woo ; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see. 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be? 


106    THE    AIODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve ; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me. 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 


WILLIAM  BROWNE  (i 591 -1643?) 

Epitaph  of  the  Countess  Dowager 

of  Pembroke 

TTNDERNEATH  this  sable  hearse 
^    Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse: 
Sidne3''s   sister,   Pembroke's   mother : 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Fair,  and  learned,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

Marble  piles  let  no  man  raise 
To  her  name :  in  after  days, 
Some  kind  woman  born  as  she, 
Reading  this,   like   Niche 
Shall  turn  marble,  and  become 
Both  her  mourner  and  her  tomb. 


FRANCIS  QUARLES   (i 592-1644) 

The  Vanity  of  the  JVorld 

I7ALSE  w'orld,  thou  ly'st :  thou  canst  not  lend 
■*■  The  least  delight : 

Thy  favors  cannot  gain  a  friend, 

Thoy   are   so   slight : 
Thy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 

To  please  at  night: 
Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  supply'st, 
And  yet  thou  vaunt'st,  and  yet  thou  vy'st 
With   heaven ;    fond   earth,   thou   boast'st ;    false   world,    thou 
ly'st. 

Thy  babbling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 

Of  endless  treasure; 
Thy  bounty  offers  easy  sales 

Of  lasting  pleasure; 


GEORGE  HERBERT  107 

Thou  ask'st  the  conscience  what  she  ails, 

And  swear'st  to  ease  her: 
There's  none  can  want  where  thou  supply'st: 
There's  none  can  give  when  thou  deny'st. 
Alas !   fond  world,  thou  boast'st ;   false  world,  thou  ly'st. 

What  well  advised  ear  regards 

What  earth  can  say? 
Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 

Are  painted  clay: 
Thy  cunning  can  but  pack  the  cards, 

Thou  canst  not  play: 
Thy  game  at  weakest,  still  thou  vy'st ; 
If  seen,  and  then  revy'd,  deny'st: 
Thou  art  not  what  thou   seem'st ;    false  world,  thou   ly'st. 

Thy  tinsel  bosom   seems   a  mint 

Of  new-coin'd  treasure; 
A  paradise,  that  has  no  stint. 

No  change,  no  measure; 
A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in't. 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure : 
Vain  earth !  that  falsely  thou  comply'st 
With  man ;  vain  man !  that  thou  rely'st 
On  earth ;  vain  man,  thou  dot'st ;   vain  earth,  thou   ly'st. 

What  mean  dull  souls,  in  this  high  measure, 

To  haberdash 
In  earth's  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treasure 

Is  dross  and  trash? 
The  height  of  whose   enchanting  pleasure 

Is  but  a  flash? 
Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  supply'st 
Us   mortals   with?     Are   these  the   high'st? 
Can  these  bring  cordial  peace?   false  world,   thou   ly'st. 

GEORGE  HERBERT   (1593-1633) 
Virtue 

OWEET  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright — 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angry  and  brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 

And  thou  must  die. 


108    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


Easter 

T  got  me  flowers  to  strew  Thy  way, 

■*■    I  got  me  boughs  of?  many  a  tree ; 

But  Thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day 

And  brought'st  Thy  sweets  along  with  Thee. 

The  sun  arising  in  the  east. 

Though  he  give  light,  and  the  east  perfume, 

If  they  should  offer  to  contest 

With  Thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this. 
Though  many  suns  to  shine  endeavor? 
We  count  three  hundred,  but  we  miss : 
There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  (1594-1674) 
His  Theme 

I"  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers, 

Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July  flowers  : 
I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes, 
Of  bridegrooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal  cakes, 
I  write  of  Youth,  of  Love,  and  have  access 
By  these,  to  sing  of  cleanly  wantonness ; 
I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains,  and,  piece  by  piece. 
Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice,  and  ambergris: 
I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting;  and  I  write 
How  roses  first  came  red.  and  lilies  white ; 
I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 
The  court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  Fairy  King. 
I  write  of  Hell :  I  sing  and  ever  shall, 
Of  Heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  all. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  109 

To  Meadozvs 

"\7'E  have  been  fresh  and  green, 

Ye  have  been  fill'd  with  flowers ; 
And  ye  the  walks  have  been 
Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

You   have  beheld  how  they 

With  wicker  arks  did  come 
To  kiss  and  bear  awaj' 

The   richer   cowslips   home. 

Ye've  heard  them   sweetly  sing, 

And   seen   them   in   a   round ; 
Each    virgin,    like    a    spring. 

With  honeysuckles   crowned. 

But  now,  we  see  none  here, 

Whose    silv'ry    feet    did    tread, 
And  with  dishevelled  hair 

Adorned   this   smoother  mead. 

Like    unthrifts,    having    spent 

Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 
Ye're  left  here  to  lament 

Your   poor   estates,    alone. 

JVhenas  in  Silks  My  Julia  Goes 

"l^HENAS  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 
'^     Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 
That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 
Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each   way  free ; 
Oh,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me ! 

The  Night-Piece,  to  Julia 

"O'ER  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
•*■■''■  The  shooting  stars  attend  thee; 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glov/. 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will-o'-th'-Wisp  mislight  thee, 
Nor  snake  or  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But   on,   on,   thy   way. 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright  thee. 


no    THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ; 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber? 

The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear,  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy   silv'ry   feet. 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 

/^  ET  up.  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 
^^  Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unsliorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throv/s  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air : 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bowed  toward  the  east, 
Above  an  hour  since :  yet  you  not  dressed ; 
Nay !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed ; 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns :  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whereas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and  green. 
And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair: 
Fear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept. 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept; 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the^  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night. 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in_ praying: 
Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come :  and.  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park 
Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees ;  see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch :  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 


ROBERT  HERRICK  111 

Made  up  of  white-thorn,  neatly  interwove ; 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 

And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't? 

Come,  we'll   abroad ;  and  let's  obey 

The   proclamation   made    for   May: 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  cream 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth : 

Many  a  green  gown  has  been  given ; 

Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  picked,  yet  we're  not  a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun ; 
And,  as  a  vapor  or  a  drop  of  rain. 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again : 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A   fable,   song,   or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time 

(^  ATHER  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 
^^       Old  Time  is  still  a-flying: 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  land  of  heaven,  the  sun. 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run. 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 


112    THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  j-our  time, 
And  while  ye  m^iy,  go  marry : 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

Delight  in  Disorder 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness: 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction: 
An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Enthrals  the   crimson   stomacher: 
A_  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbons   to   flow  confusedly: 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the   tempestuous   petticoat : 
A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I   see   a   wild   civility: 
Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

To  Daffodils 

ip.MR  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon ; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon. 

Stay,    stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 
Has   run 
But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go   with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

W^c  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you,  or  any  thing. 
We  die 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain  ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  113 

To  Anthea,  Who  May  Command  Him 
Anything 

"DID  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 

Thy  Protestant  to  be ; 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 
A   loving  heart  to   thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as   sound  and   free 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 

That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay  , 

To  honor  thy  decree ; 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And  't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 

Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep, 

While  I  have  eyes  to  see ; 
And  having  none,  yet  will  I  keep 

A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair. 

Under  that  cypress  tree ; 
Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 

E'en  death,  to  die  for  thee. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart. 

The  very  eyes  of  me ; 
And  tiast  command  of  every  part. 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 


To  Ben  Jonson 

AH.  Ben! 

Say  how.  or  when 
Shall  we  thy  guests 
Meet  at  those  lyric   feasts, 

Made  at  the   Sun. 
The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun? 
Where  we  such  clusters  had. 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad ; 
And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 
Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine. 

Abridged. 


114    THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 
A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for  His  House 

T     ORD,  Thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 
•^  Wherein  to  dwell ; 

A   little  house,   whose  humble   roof 

Is  weather-proof ; 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft  and  dry; 
Where  Thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 

Hast  set  a  guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me,   while   I   sleep. 
Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate; 

Both  void  of  state  ; 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  the  poor, 
Who  thither  come,  and   freely  get 

Good  words,  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlor,  so  my  hall 

And  kitchen's  small; 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  little  bin. 
Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchipped,  unflead ; 
Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  briar 

Make  me  a  fire. 
Close  by  whose  living  coal  I  sit. 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,  I  confess  too.  when  I  dine, 

The  pulse  is  Thine, 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  Thee : 
The  worts,  the  purslain,  and  the  mess 

Of   water-cress ; 
Which  of  Thy  kindness  Thou  hast  sent; 

And  my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet. 

To  be  more  sweet. 
*Tis  Thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth. 
And  giv'st  me  wassail  bowls  to  drink. 

Spiced  to  the  brink. 
Lord,  'tis  Thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soils  my  land. 
And  giv'st  me,   for  my  bushel   sown, 

Twice  ten    for  one ; 


JAMES  SHIRLEY  115 

Thou  mak'st  my  teeming  hen  to  lay 

Her  egg  each  day ; 
Besides,  my  healthful  ewes  to  bear 

Me  twins   each  year; 
The  while  the  conduits  of  my  kine 

Run  cream,   for  wine : 
All  these,  and  better.  Thou  dost  send 

Me,  to  this  end, — 
That  I  should  render,   for  my  part, 

A   thankful    heart; 
Which,  fired  with  incense,  I  resign, 

As  wholly  Thine ; 
— But  the  acceptance,  that  must  be. 

My  Christ,  by  Thee. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY  (1596-1666) 
Death  the  Conqueror 

'T^HE  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 
Sceptre  and   Crown 
Must   tumble    down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With   the  poor  crooked  scythe   and   spade. 


Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill : 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to   fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 


The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's   purple   altar  now 

See   where  the  victor-victim  bleeds : 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


IIG    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
THOMAS   RANDOLPH    (1605-1635) 

An  Ode  to  Master  Anthony  Stafford  to  Hasten 
Him  into  the  Country 

/^OME,  spur  away, 

I  have  no  patience  for  a  longer  stay, 
But  must  go  down 
And  leave  the  chargeable  noise  of  this  great  town: 
I  will  the  country  see. 
Where  old  simplicity. 
Though  hid  in  gray. 
Doth  look  more  gay 
Than   foppery  in  plush  and  scarlet  clad. 
Farewell,  you  city  wits,  that  are 
Almost  at  civil  war — 
'Tis  time  that  I  grow  wise,  when  all  the  world  grows  mad. 


More  of  my  days 
I  will  not  spend  to  gain  an  idiot's  praise ; 

Or  to  make  sport 
For  some  slight  Puisne  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 
Then,  worthy  Stafford,  say. 
How  shall  we  spend  the  day."* 
With  what  delights 
Shorten   the   nights? 
When  from  this  tumult  we  are  got  secure, 
Where  mirth  with  all  her  freedom  goes, 
Yet  shall  no  finger  lose ; 
Where  every  word  is  thought,  and  every  thought  is  pure? 


There  from  the  tree 
W^e'll  cherries  pluck,  and  pick  the  strawberry ; 

And  every  day 
Go  see  the  wholesome  country  girls  make  hay, 
Whose  brown  hath   lovelier  grace 
Than  any  painted  face 
That  I  do  know 
Hyde   Park  can   show: 
Where  I  had  rather  gain  a  kiss  than  meet 
(Though  some  of  them  in  greater  state 
Might  court  my  love  with  plate) 
The  beauties  of  the  Cheap,  and  wives  of  Lombard  Street. 

But  think  upon 
Some  other  pleasures :  these  to  me  are  none. 


THOMAS  RANDOLPH  117 

Why  do  I  prate 
Of  women,  that  are  things  against  my  fate ! 
I  never  mean  to  wed 

That  torture  to  my  bed : 
My  Muse  is  she 
My  love  shall  be. 
Let  clowns  get  wealth  and  heirs :  when  I  am  gone 
And  that  great  bugbear,  grisly  Death, 
Shall  take  this  idle  breath, 
If  I  a  poem  leave,  that  poem  is  my  son. 

Of  this  no  more  I 
We'll  rather  taste  the  bright  Pomona's  store. 

No  fruit  shall  'scape 
Our  palates,  from  the  damson  to  the  grape. 
Then,  full,  we'll  seek  a  shade. 

And  hear  what  music's  made ; 
How  Philomel 
Her  tale  doth  tell. 
And  how  the  other  birds  do  fill  the  choir ; 
The  thrush  and  blackbird  lend  their  throats, 
Warbling  melodious   notes ; 
We  will  all  sports  enjoy  which  others  but  desire. 

Ours  is  the  sky, 
Where  at  what  fowl  we  please  our  hawk  shall  fly: 

Nor  will  we  spare 
To  hunt  the  crafty  fox  or  timorous  hare; 
But  let  our  hounds  run  loose 
In  any  ground  they'll  choose; 
The  buck  shall  fall, 
The  stag,  and  all. 
Our  pleasures  must  from  their  own  warrants  be. 
For  to  my  Muse,  if  not  to  me, 
I'm  sure  all  game  is  free: 
Heaven,  earth,  are  all  but  parts  of  her  great  royalty. 

And  when  we  mean 
To  taste  of  Bacchus'  blessings  now  and  then, 

And  drink  by  stealth 
A  cup  or  two  to  noble  Barkley's  health, 
I'll  take  my  pipe  and  try 
The  Phrygian  melody; 
Which  he  that  hears. 
Lets  through  his  ears 
A  madness  to  distemper  all  the  brain: 
Then  I  another  pipe  will  take 
And  Doric  music  make, 
To  civilize  with  graver  notes  our  wits  again. 


118    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 
SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT  (1606-1668) 

Morning  Song 

TPHE  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest, 
■*■        And  climbinp  shakes  his  dewy  wings, 
He  takes  your  window  for  the  east, 

And  to  implore  your  light,  he  sings ; 
Awake,  awake,  the  morn  will  never  rise, 
Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star. 

The    ploughman    from    the    sun   his    season    takes ; 

But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are, 

Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress  wakes ; 

Awake,  awake,  break  through  j^our  veils  of  lawn  I 

Then  draw  your  curtains  and  begin  the  dawn. 


EDMUND  WALLER  (1606-1687) 
*'Go,  Lovely  Rose*' 


G 


.0,  lovely  Rose — 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 
That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  imcommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired : 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Sufifer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die — that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee ; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair  I 


JOHN  MILTON  119 

On  a  Girdle 

*  I  ""HAT  which  her  slender  waist  confined 

Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms   might  do   what  this  has   done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer: 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair  I 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round  1 

Old  Age  and  Death 

*  I  ^HE  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er ; 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more. 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  too  certain  to  be  lost. 
Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries. 

The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 

Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  time  has  made: 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 

As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 

Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view, 

That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

JOHN  MILTON  (1608-1674) 
^ong  from  "Arcades" 

/^'ER  the  smooth  enamell'd  green, 
^^  Where  no  print  of  step  hath  been, 

Follow  me  as  I  sing. 

And  touch  the  warbled  string. 
Under  the  shady  roof 
Of  branching  elm  star-proof. 

Follow  me, 
I  will  bring  you  where  she  sits, 
Clad  in  splendor  as  befits 

Her  deity. 
Such  a  rural  Queen 
All  Arcadia  hath  not  seen. 


120    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
From  "Comtis" 

'T'HE  star  tliat  bids  the  shepherd  fold, 
Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold; 
And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream ; 
And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 
Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  east. 
Meanwhile  welcome  Joy,  and  Feast, 
Midnight  Shout  and  Revelry, 
Tipsy  Dance  and  Jollity. 
Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 
Dropping  odors,  dropping  wine. 
Rigor  now  is  gone  to  bed, 
And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head. 
Strict  Age,  and  sour  Severity, 
With  their  grave  saws  in  slumber  lie. 
We  that  are  of  purer  fire 
Imitate  the  starry  quire, 
Who  in  their  nightly  watchful  spheres 
Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  j'^ears. 
The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny  drove, 
Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morricc  move ; 
And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 
Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves. 
By  dimpled  brook,  and  fountain  brim. 
The  wood-nymphs  deck'd  with  daisies  trim, 
Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep ; 
What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep? 
Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove, 
Venus  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 
Come  let  us  our  rites  begin, 
'Tis  only  day-light  that  makes  sin, 
Which  these  dun   shades  will  ne'er  report. 
Hail  Goddess  of  nocturnal  sport, 
Dark-vcil'd  Cotytto,  t'whom  the  secret  flame 
Of  midnight  torches  burns  ;  mysterious  dame, 
That  ne'er  art  call'd,  but  when  the  dragon  womb 
Of  Stygian  darkness  spets  her  thickest  gloom. 
And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air ; 
Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 
Wherein  thou  rid'st  with  Hecat,  and  befriend 
Us  thy  vow'd  priests,  till  utmost  end 
Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left  out. 
Ere  the  babbling  eastern  scout. 


JOHN  MILTON  121 

The  nice  morn,  on  the  Indian  steep 

From  her  cabin'd  loophole  peep, 

And  to  the  tell-tale  sun  descry 

Our  conccal'd  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground 

In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

****** 

To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 

And  those  happy  climes  that  He 

Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye. 

Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky: 

There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 

All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 

Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree : 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 

Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring, 

The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 

Thither  all  their  bounties  bring; 

There  eternal  Summer  dwells. 

And  west-winds,  with  musky  wing. 

About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 

Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 

Iris  there  with  humid  bow 

Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 

Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 

That  her  purfled  scarf  can  show, 

And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 

(List  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 

Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 

Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 

Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 

In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 

Sadly  sits  th'  Assyrian  queen ; 

But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen 

Celestial  Cupid  her  famed  son  advanced. 

Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  intranced, 

After  her  wand'ring  labors  long, 

Till  free  consent  the  Gods  among 

Make  her  his  eternal  bride, 

And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 

Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 

Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 

I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 

Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end. 

Where  the  bow'd  welkin  slow  doth  bend,  ^ 

And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 

To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 


122    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue,  she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime: 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heav'n  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 


L' Allegro 

■jLIENCE  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born, 
In  Stygian  Cave  forlorn 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  unholy ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell. 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings. 
And  the  night-Raven  sings ; 

There,  under  Ebon  shades,  and  low-browed  Rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  Locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  Heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more. 
To   Ivy-crowned   Bacchus   bore ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  Sager  sing) 
The  Frolic  Wind  that  breathes  the  Spring, 
Zephir  with  Aurora  playing. 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying, 
There,  on  Beds  of  Violets  blue, 
And  fresh-blown  Roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  Wreathed  Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that   wrinkled   Care   derides. 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe. 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee, 
The  Mountain  Nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirtli,  admit  me  of  thy  crew 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 


JOHN  MILTON  123 

In  unrcproved  pleasures  free ; 

To  hear  the  Lark  begin  his  flight, 

And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 

Through  the  Sweet-Briar,  or  the  Vine, 

Or  the  twisted  Eglantine. 

While  the  Cock,  with  lively  din, 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin. 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  Barn-door, 

Stoutly  struts  his  Dames  before, 

Oft  listening  how  the  Hounds  and  horn 

Clearly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  Hoar  Hill, 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill. 

Some  time  walking  not  unseen 

By  Hedge-row  Elms,  on  Hillocks  green. 

Right  against  the   Eastern  gate. 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state. 

Robed  in  flames,  and  Amber  light. 

The  clouds  in  thousand  Liveries  dight. 

While  the  Plowman,  near  at  hand, 

Whistles  o'er  the  Furrowed  Land, 

And  the  Milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 

And  the  Mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  Shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  Hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 

Whilst  the  Landscape  round  it  measures. 

Russet  Lawns,  and  Fallows  Gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray. 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest: 

Meadows  trim  with  Daisies  pied. 

Shallow  Brooks,  and  Rivers  wide. 

Towers,  and  Battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  Trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 

The  Cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 

Hard  by  a  Cottage  chimney  smokes. 

From  betwixt  two  aged  Oaks, 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met. 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 

Of  Herbs,  and  other  Country  Messes, 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  Bower  she  leaves. 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  Sheaves ; 


124    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tanned  Haycock  in  the  Mead. 

Sofnetimes  with  secure  delight 

The  upland  Hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  Bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid, 

Dancing  in  the  Chequered  shade ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  Sunshine  Holyday, 

Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail ; 

Then  to  the  Spicy  Nut-brown  Ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 

How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 

She  was  pinched,  and  pulled  she  said ; 

And  he,  by  Friar's  Lantern  led, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat, 

To  earn  his  Cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  Flail  hath  threshed  the  Corn 

That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end. 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend. 

And  stretched  out  all  the  Chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 

And  Crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  Cock  his  Matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  Tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  Winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  Cities  please  us  then. 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men. 
Where  throngs  of  Knights  and  Barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  Peace  high  triumphs  hold. 
With  store  of  Ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  Wit,  or  Arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  Grace,  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  Saffron  robe,  with  Taper  clear. 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry. 
With  mask,  and  antique  Pageantry, 
Such  sights  as  youthful   Poets  dream 
On  Summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  Sock  be  on. 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  Wood-notes  wild ; 
And  ever,  against  eating  Cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  Airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse 


JOHN  MILTON  125 

Such  as  the  meetinar  soul  may  pierce 

In  notes,  with  many  a  winding-  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning,^ 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running; 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights,  if  thou  canst  give. 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


//  Penseroso 

TJENCE  vain  deluding  Joys, 
■■^  The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred! 
How  little  you  bestead. 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys; 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams 

The  fickle  Pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  Goddess,  sage  and  holy. 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  Saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  Sense  of  human  sight ; 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view, 
O'er-laid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue. 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem, 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem. 
Or  that  Starred  Ethiope  Queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  Sea  Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore. 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore ; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign. 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  Bowers,  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove. 


126    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure. 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  Cypress  Lawn, 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  th}'-  wonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies. 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes : 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thy  self  to  Marble,  till 

With  a  sad  Leaden  downward  cast, 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet. 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring, 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  Altar  sing. 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  Gardens  takes  his  pleasure; 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring, 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne. 

The  Cherub  Contemplation, 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  Song, 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight. 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  Dragon  yoke. 

Gently  o'er  th'  accustomed  Oak; 

Sweet  Bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 

Thee,  Chauntress,  oft  the  Woods  among, 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  Green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  Moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  Heaven's  wide  pathless  way; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed. 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft  on  a  Plat  of  rising  ground, 

T  hear  the  far-off  Curfew  sound. 

Over  some   wide-watered  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 

Or  if  the  Air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 


JOHN  MILTON  127 

Where  glowing  Embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom, 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  Cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  Bellman's  drowsy  charm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm : 

Or  let  my  Lamp,  at  midnight  hour, 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  Tower, 

Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato  to  unfold 

What  Worlds,  or  what  vast  Regions  hold 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook: 

And  of  those  Daemons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  f^ood,  or  under  ground. 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 

With  Planet,  or  with  Element. 

Some  time  let  Gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  Sceptered  Pall  come  sweeping  by, 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line. 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine. 

Or  what   (though  rare)   of  later  age, 

Ennobled  hath  the  Buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Mussus  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  Iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seeTc. 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of   Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  w^ife. 
That  owned  the  virtuous  Ring  and  Glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  Horse  of  Brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  King  did  ride; 
And  if  aught  else  great  Bards  beside, 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 
Of  Tourneys  and  of  Trophies  hung; 
Of  Forests,  and  enchantments  drear. 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 
Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear. 
Not  tricked  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont, 
With  the  Attic  Boy  to  hunt. 
But  Kerchiefed  in  a  comely  Cloud, 
While  rocking  Winds  are  Piping  loud, 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still. 


128    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  Leaves, 
With  minute-drops   from  off  the  Eaves. 
And  when  the  Sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves. 
Of  Pine,  or  monumental  Oak, 
Where  the  rude  Ax  with  heaved  stroke. 
Was  never  heard  the  Nymphs  to  daunt. 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  Brook, 
Where  no  profaner  e3^e  may  look. 
Hide  me  from  Day's  garish  eye. 
While  the  Bee  with  Honied  thigh. 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 
And  the  Waters  murmuring 
Witli  such  consort  as  they  keep. 
Entice  the  dewy-feathered   Sleep ; 
And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream, 
Wave  at  his  Wings,  in  Airy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 
Softly  on  my  eye-lids  laid. 
And  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath, 
Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good. 
Or  th'  unseen  Genius  of  the  Wood. 
But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail, 
To  walk  the  studious  Cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  Roof, 
With   antique   Pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  Windows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 
There  let  the  pealing  Organ  blow, 
To  the  full  voiced  choir  below. 
In  Service  high,  and  Anthems  clear. 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve   me   into   ecstasies. 
And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find   out   the   peaceful   hermitage. 
The  Hairy  Gown  and  Moss}"-  Cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  Star  that  Heaven  doth  shew. 
And  every  Herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like   Prophetic  strain. 
These  pleasures.   Melancholy,   give, 
And  I  with  thee  w-ill  choose  to  live. 


JOHN  MILTON  129 

Lycidas 

{A    Lament   for   a   Friend   Drozvned   in    His    Passage   from 
Chester  on  the  Irish  Seas,  1637) 

"VET  once  more,  O  ye  Laurels,  and  once  more 

Ye  Myrtles  brown,  with  Ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  Berries  harsh  and  crude. 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude, 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear. 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due: 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer: 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well. 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse, 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  Urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn. 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 
For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill. 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill ; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  Lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eye-lids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  Graj'-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  Star  that  rose,  at  Evening,  bright 
Toward  Heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  Rural  ditties  were  not  mute. 
Tempered  to  the  Oaten  Flute ; 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel. 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long, 
And  old  Damretas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  Woods,  and  desert  Caves, 
With  wild  Thyme  and  the  gadding  Vine  o'ergrown. 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
The  Willows,  and  the  Hazel  Copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 
Fanning  their  joyous  Leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  Canker  to  the  Rose, 


130    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Or  Taint-worm  to  the  weanling  Herds  that  graze, 
Or  Frost  to  Flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When   first  the  White-thorn  blows  ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  Shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep. 
Where  your  old  Bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream : 
Aye  me,  I  fondly  dream ! 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son 
Whom  Universal  nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas  !     What  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homel.y  slighted  Shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse, 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Ncjcra's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  Noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  Guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  tlie  thin-spun  life.     "But  not  the  praise," 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears; 
"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies, 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  eacli  deed. 
Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored  flood, 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  Oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea. 

He  asked  the  Waves,  and  asked  the  Felon  winds. 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  Promontory. 


JOHN  MILTON  131 

They  knew  not  of  his  story, 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answei   brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed, 

The  Air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine. 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  Bark 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  Sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  Mantle  hairy,  and  his  Bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with   woe. 
"Ah,  who  hath  reft,"   (quoth  he)   "my  dearest  pledge?" 
Last  come,  and  last  did  go. 
The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake. 
Two  massy  Kej's  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 
(The  Golden  opes,  the  Iron  shuts  amain). 
He  shook  his  Mitered  locks,  and  stern  bespake, 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 
Enow  of  such  as,  for  their  bellies'  sake. 
Creep  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'   feast. 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 
A  Sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  Herdman's  art  belongs  I 
What  recks  it  them?    What  need  they?    They  are  sped; 
And  when  the}'  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  Pipes  of  wretched  straw, 
The  hungrj'  Sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 
But  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread : 
Besides  what  the  grim  Wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,   and  nothing  said. 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door. 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past. 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  Vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  Bells,  and  Flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use, 
Of  shades  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  Star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enameled  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showers, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  Primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  Crow-toe,  and  pale  Jessamine, 
The  white  Pink,  and  the  Pansy  freaked  with  jet, 


132    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

The  glowing  Violet, 

The  Musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  Woodbine, 

With  Cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears : 

Bid  Amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  Daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strew  the  Laureate  Hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 

Ay  me !     Whilst  thee  the  shores,  and  sounding  Seas 

Wash  far  away,  where  e'er  thy  bones  are  hurled, 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old. 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  Mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold ; 

Look  homeward.  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth : 

And,  O  ye  Dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  vvoful  Shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneatli  the  watery  floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  Ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  witli  new-spangled  Ore, 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 
So   Lycidas   sunk  low.   but   mounted   high. 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves 
W^here.  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  Nectar  pure  his  oozj'  Locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressivc  nuptial  Song, 
In  the  blest  Kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  Societies, 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  Shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  In  that  pcrilotis  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  Swain  to  the  Oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  Sandals  gray, 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various   Quills, 
With   eager  thought  warbling  his   Doric  lay: 
And  now  the  Sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills. 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  Western  bay ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  Mantle  blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  Woods,  and  Pastures  new. 


JOHN  MILTON  133 

An  Epitaph  on  the  Jdmirable  Dramatic  Poet, 
W.  Shakespeare 

y^TYlXT  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honored  bones 

"     The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  stary-pointing-  pyramid? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself   a   livelong  monument. 
For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavoring  art, 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took, 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving. 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving; 
And  so  sepulchered  in  such  pomp  dost  lie. 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 


To  the  Nightingale 

^\  nightingale  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 

^"^  Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still, 

Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  lover's  heart  dost  fill, 
While  the  jolly  hours  lead  on  propitious  May. 

Thy  liquid  notes  that  close  the  eye  of  day. 

First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckoo's  bill, 
Portend  success  in  love.     O,  if  Jove's  will 
Have  linked  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft  lay, 

Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 

Foretell  my  hopeless  doom,  in  some  grove  nigh ; 
As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late 

For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  why. 

Whether  the  Muse  or  Love  call  thee  his  mate. 
Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  L 


How  Soon  Hath  Time 

XTOW  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  yearl 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shcw'th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near ; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear, 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 


134    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 

Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of  Heaven, 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-Master's  eye. 


On  His  Blindness 

"^^HEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
'  '     Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to  hide. 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide ; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best ;  his  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed. 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

On  His  Deceased  Wife 

TVi^ETHOUGHT  I  saw  my  late  espoused  Saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave. 
Whom  Jove's  great  Son  to  her  glad  Husband  gave, 
Rescu'd  from  death  by  force  though  pale  and  faint. 
Mine  as  whom  washt  from  spot  of  child-bed  taint. 
Purification  in  the  old  Law  did  save. 
And  such,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint. 
Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  lier  mind  : 
Her  face  was  veil'd,  yet  to  my  fancied  sight, 
Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shin'd 
So  clear,  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 
But  O  as  to  embrace  me  she  enclin'd 
I  wak'd,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 


On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 

A  VENGE,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
■^  Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold  ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING  135 

Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Picdmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant   down  the   rocks.     Their   moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
A  hundredfold,   who,   having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING  (1608-1641) 

A  Ballad  upon  a  JFedding 

T  tell  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been, 

Oh,  things  without  compare ! 
Where  I  the  rarest  things  have  seen ; 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground, 
Be  it  at  wake  or  fair. 

At  Charing  Cross,  hard  by  the  way 
Where  we   (thou  know'st)   do  sell  our  hay, 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs ; 
And  there  did  I  see  coming  down 
Such  folk  as  are  not  in  our  town,    • 

Forty  at  least,  in  pairs. 

At  Course-a-Park,  without  all  doubt, 
He  should  have  first  been  taken  out 

By  all  the  maids  i'  the  town : 
Though  lusty  Roger  there  had  been, 
Or  little  George  upon  the  green, 

Or  Vincent  of  the  Crown. 

Amongst  the  rest,  one  pest'lent  fine, 

(His  beard  no  bigger,  though,  than  thine) 

Walk'd  on  before  the  rest: 
Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him : 
The  king,  God  bless  him,  'twould  undo  him. 

Should  he  go  still  so  drest. 

But  wot  you  what?     The  youth  was  going 
To  make  an  end  of  all  his  wooing; 

The  parson  for  him  staid  : 
Yet  by  his  leave,  for  all  his  haste, 
He  did  not  so  much  wish  all  past. 

Perchance,  as  did  the  maid. 


136    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

The  maid,  and  tlicrcby  hangs  a  tale, 
For  such  a  maid  no  whitsum-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape  that's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 

Would  not  stay  on  which  tliey  did  bring; 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck : 
And,  to  say  truth   (for  out  it  must) 
It  look'd  like  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her   feet  beneath  her  petticoat. 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  fear'd  the  light: 
But  oh !  she  dances  such  a  way  1 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

He  would  have  kissed  her  once  or  twice, 
But  she  would  not,  she  was  so  nice, 

She  would  not  do't  in  sight. 
And  then  she  looked  as  who  should  say: 
I  will  do  what  I  list  to-day, 

And  you  shall  do't  at  night. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison  ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there. 
Such  as  are  on  a  Cath'rine  pear, 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red  ;  and  one  was  thin, 
Compar'd  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze. 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak, 
Thou'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break, 

That  they  might  passage  get : 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter. 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

If  wishing  should  be  any  sin. 
The  parson  himself  had  guilty  been 
(She  look'd  that  day  so  purely)  : 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING  137 

And  did  the  youth  so  oft  the  feat 
At  niglit,  as  some  did  in  conceit, 

It  would  have  spoiled  him  surely. 

Passion,  oh  me !  how  I  run  on  1 

There's  that  that  would  be  thought  upon. 

I  trow,  besides  the  bride : 
The  bus'ness  of  the  kitchen's  great, 
For  it  is  fit  that  men  should  eat, 

Nor  was  it  there  denied. 

Just  in  the  nick,  the  cook  knock'd  thrice. 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey; 
Each  serving-man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train'd  band, 

Presented,  and  away. 

When  all  the  meat  was  on  the  table. 
What  man  of  knife,  or  teeth,  was  able 

To  stay  to  be  intreated? 
And  this  the  very  reason  was, 
Before   the  parson   could   say  grace, 

The  company  was  seated. 

Now  hats  fly  off,  and  youths  carouse ; 
Healths  first  go  round,  and  then  the  house. 

The  bride's  came  thick  and  thick ; 
And  when  'twas  nam'd  another's  health. 
Perhaps  he  made  it  her's  by  stealth, 

And  who  could  help  it,  Dick? 

O'  th'  sudden  up  they  rise  and  dance; 
Then  sit  again,  and  sigh,  and  glance : 

Then  dance  again,  and  kiss. 
Thus  sev'ral  ways  the  time  did  pass, 
Till  ev'ry  woman  wish'd  her  place. 

And  ev'ry  man  wish'd  his. 

By  this  time  all  were  stol'n  aside 
To  counsel  and  undress  the  bride : 

But  that  he  must  not  know : 
But  yet  'twas  thought  he  guess'd  her  mind, 
And  did  not  mean  to  stay  behind 

Above  an  hour  or  so. 

When  in  he  came  (Dick),  there  she  lay 
Like  new-fall'n  snow  melting  away 
('Twas  time,  I  trow,  to  part)  ; 


138    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Kisses  were  now  the  only  stay, 
Which  soon  she  gave,  as  who  should  say, 
God  b'  w'  ye,  with  all  my  heart. 

But,  just  as  Heaven  would  have,  to  cross  it, 
In  came  the  bridesmaids  with  the  posset : 

The  bridegroom  ate  in  spite ; 
For  had  he  left  the  women  to't, 
It  would  have  cost  two  hours  to  do't, 

Which  were  too  much  that  night. 

At  length  the  candle's  out,  and  now 
All  that  they  had  not  done  they  do. 

What  that  is,  who  can  tell? 
But  I  believe  it  was  no  more 
Than  thou  and  I  have  done  before 

With  Bridget  and  with  Nell. 

Son^ 

\JU"iiY  so  paie  and  wan,  fond  lover? 
"'    Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,    when    speaking    well    can't    win   her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame,  this  will  not  move : 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  devil  take  her  I 

RICHARD  CRASH  AW  (1613-1650) 

Wishes  to  His  Supposed  Mistress 

"O/'HOE'ER  she  be, 

"     That  not  impossible  She 
That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me : 

Where'er  she  lie. 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny: 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  139 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  tread  our  earth : 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine: 

Meet  3'oii  her,  my  Wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses. 
And  be  ye  called  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  Beauty 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glistering  shoe-tie : 

Something  more  than 
Taffeta  or  tissue  can. 
Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

More  than  the  spoil 

Of  shop,  or  silkworm's  toil, 

Or  a  bought  blush,  or  a  set  smile. 

A  Face  that's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  dressed, 

And  can  alone  commend  the  rest. 

A  Face,  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

A  Cheek,  where  youth 

And  blood,  with  pen  of  truth, 

Write  what  their  reader  sweetly  ru'th. 

A  Cheek,  where  grows 
More  than   a  morning  rose, 
Which  to  no  box  its  being  owes. 

Lips,   where  all  day 

A  lover's  kiss  may  play, 

Yet  carry  nothing  thence  away. 

Looks,  that  oppress 

Their  richest  tires,  but  dress 

Themselves  in  simple  nakedness. 

Eyes,  that  displace 

The  neighbor  diamond,  and  outface 

That  sunshine  by  their  own  sweet  grace. 


140    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Tresses,  that  wear 

Jewels  but  to  declare 

How  much  themselves  more  precious  are : 

Whose  native  ray 

Can  tame  the  wanton  day 

Of  gems  that  in  their  bright  shades  play. 

Each  ruby  there, 

Or  pearl  that  dare  appear, 

Be  its  own  blush,  be  its  own  tear. 

A  well-tamed   Heart, 

For  whose  more  noble  smart 

Love  may  be  long  choosing  a  dart. 

Eyes,  that  bestow 

Full  quivers  on  Love's  bow. 

Yet  play  less  arrows  than  they  owe. 

Smiles,  that  can  warm 

The  blood,  yet  teach  a  charm, 

That  chastity  shall  take  no  harm. 

Blushes,  that  bin 

The  burnish  of  no  sin, 

Nor  flames  of  aught  too  hot  within. 

Joys,  that  confess 

Virtue  their  mistress. 

And  have  no  other  head  to  dress. 

Fears,  fond  and  slight 

As  the  coy  bride's,  when  night. 

First  does  the  longing  lover  right. 

Days  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good-morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow. 

Days  that,  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind,  are  day  all  night. 

Nights,  sweet  as  they. 

Made  short  by  lovers'  play. 

Yet  long  by  the  absence  of  the  day. 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end, 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  "Welcome,  f riend  1" 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  141 

Sydneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers. 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open    suns,    shady   bowers ; 

'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  Day's  forehead  bright. 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  Night 

In  her  whole  frame 

Have  Nature  all  the  name ; 

Art  and  Ornament,  the  shame  I 

Her  flattery, 

Picture  and  Poesy: 

Her  counsel  her  own  virtue  be. 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes ;  and  I  wish — no  more. 

Now,   if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows; 

Her,  whose  just  bays 

My  future  hopes  can  raise, 

A  trophy  to  her  present  praise ; 

Her,  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see ; 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

'Tis  She,  and  here, 

Lo !  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  Wishes'  cloudy  character. 

May  she  enjoy  it 

Whose  merit  dare  apply  it, 

But  modesty  dares  still  deny  it! 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  Wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye ; 

Be  ye  my  fictions — but  her  Story! 


142    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
Hymn  to  the  Name  of  Jesus 

T  sing  the  Name  which  none  can  say, 

But  touch'd  with  an  interior  ray; 
The  name  of  our  new  peace ;  our  good ; 
Our  bliss,  and  supernatural  blood ; 
The  name  of  all  our  lives  and  loves : 
Hearken  and  help,  ye  holy  doves  1 
The  high-born  brood  of  day;  you  bright 
Candidates  of  blissful  light, 
The  heirs  elect  of  love ;  whose  names  belong 
Unto  the  everlasting  life  of  song; 
All  ye  wise  souls,  who  in  the  wealthy  breast 
Of  his  unbounded  Name  build  your  warm  nest. 

Oh,  fill  our  senses,  and  take  from  us 

All  force  of  so  profane  a  fallacy, 

To  think  aught  sweet  but  that  which  smells  of  thee. 

Fair  flow'ry  name !  in  none  but  thee, 

And  thy  nectareal  fragrancy, 

Hourly  there  meets 
An  universal  synod  of  all  sweets; 
By  whom  it  is  defined  thus — 

That  no  perfume 

For  ever  shall  presume 
To  pass  for  odoriferous, 
But  such  alone  Vv'hose  sacred  pedigree 
Can  prove  itself  some  kin,  sweet  name!  to  thee. 


RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658) 
To  Althea,  from  Prison 

'HEN   Love  with  unconfined  wings 
Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 
To   whimper   at  the   grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With   no   allaying   Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound. 

Our  hearts  with  loj-al  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep. 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY  143 

Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King : 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged   winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage ; 
H  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free. 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

To  Lticasta,  Going  to  the  JFars 

nPELL  me  not.  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That   from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  thou  too  shalt  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee.  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honor  more. 

ABRAHAM  COWLEY  (1618-1667) 

The  TVhh 

'XTT'ELL  then,  I  now  do  plainly  see 

'"    This  busy  world  and  T  shall  ne'er  agree; 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 
Does,  of  all  meats,  the  soonest  cloy: 

And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd,  and  buzz,  and  mnrmurings 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city! 


144    THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  the  grave. 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have ; 
And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books,  both  true, 
Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too ! 

And  since  Love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, — 
A  mistress  moderately  fair. 
And  good  as  guardian-angels  are, 

Only  beloved,  and  loving  me ! 

O  fountains !  when  in  you  shall  I 

Myself  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts  espy? 

O  fields !     O  woods !  when,  when  shall  I  be  made 

The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade? 

Here's  the  spring-head  of  pleasure's  flood ! 
Here's  wealthy  Nature's  treasury. 
Where  all  the  riches  lie,  that  she 

Has  coined  and  stamped  for  good. 

Pride  and  ambition  here 

Only  in  far-fetched  metaphors  appear ; 

Here  naught  but  winds  can  hurtful  murmurs  scatter, 

And  naught  but  echo  flatter. 

The  gods,  when  they  descended,  hither 
From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way; 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say 

That  'tis  the  way  to  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I 
And  one  dear  She  live,  and  embracing  die  1 
She  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 
In  deserts  solitude. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear : 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me. 

And  so  make  a  city  here. 

Drinking 

(After  Anacreon) 

*  ■"'HE  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain. 

And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again ; 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are. 
With  constant  drinking,  fresh  and  fair; 
The  sea  itself  (vv'hich  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink). 
Drinks  twice  ten  thousand  rivers  up. 
So  filled  that  they  o'erflow  the  cup. 
The  busy  sun   (and  one  would  guess 
By's  drunken  fiery  face  no  less). 


ANDREW  MARVELL  145 

Drinks  up  the  sea,  and,  when  he's  done, 
The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun : 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light; 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  nature's  sober  found, 
But  an  eternal  "health"  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high — 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there ;  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I? 
Why,  men  of  morals,  tell  me  why? 


ANDREW  MARVELL  (1621-1678) 

An  Horat'tan  Ode  upon  Cromwell's  Return 
from  Ireland 

(1650) 

'T'HE  forward  youth  that  would  appear 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 
Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 
His  numbers  languishing. 

*Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armor's  rust. 

Removing   from   the   wall 

The  corselet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace. 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star ; 

And,  like  the  three-forked  lightning,  first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nursed, 

Did  through  his  own  side 

His  fiery  way  divide ; 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 
The  emulous,  or  enemy. 

And  with  such,  to  enclose 

Is  more  than  to  oppose; — 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went, 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent; 

And   Caesar's  head   at  last 

Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 


146    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  Heaven's  flame; 

And  if  we  would  speak  true, 

Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

Who,  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere 

(As  if  his  highest  plot 

To  plant  the  bergamot), 

Could  by  industrious  valor  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time. 

And  cast  the  Kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould ; 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain — 

But  those  do  hold  or  break 

As  men  are  strong  or  weak — 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 
Allows   of   penetration   less. 

And  therefore  must  make  room 

Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art ; 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope. 

He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Caresbrooke's  narrow  case ; 

That  thence  the  Royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn  : 

While   round   the   armed   bands 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene. 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try; 

Nor  called  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite. 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right; 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 


ANDREW  MARVELL  147 

This  was  that  memorable  hour 
Which  first  assured  the  forced  power: 

So  when  they  did  design 

The  Capitol's  first  line, 

A  Bleeding  Head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run ; 

And  yet  in  that  the  State 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate ! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 

To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed ; 

So  much  one  man  can  do 

That  does  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best. 

And  have,  though  overcome,  confessed 

How  good  he  is,  how  just 

And  fit  for  highest  trust. 

Nor  yet  grown  stiflFer  with  command, 
But  still  in  the  republic's  hand — 

How  fit  he  is  to  sway 

That  can  so  well  obey! 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents 

A  Kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents, 

And,  what  he  may,  forbears 

His   fame,  to  make  it  theirs : 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt 
To  lay  them  at  the  public's  skirt. 

So  when  the  falcon  high 

Falls  heavy  from  the  sky. 

She,  having  killed,  no  more  doth  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch ; 

Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 

The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

What  may  not  then  our  Isle  presume, 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume? 

What  may  not  others  fear, 

If  thus  he  crowns  each  year? 

As  Caesar,  he.  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  States  not  free 

Shall  Climacteric  be. 


148    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-colored  mind, 

But,   from  this  valor,   sad, 

Shrink  underneath  the  plaid. 

Happy,  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 

The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  thou,  the  war's  and  fortune's  son, 
March  indefatigably  on. 

And  for  the  last  effect. 

Still  keep  the  sword  erect : 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night ; 

The  same  arts  that  did  gain 

A  power,  must  it  maintain. 

The  Garden 

"LJOW  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 

To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  baj^s, 
And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or  tree. 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils   upbraid ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose  1 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here. 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men : 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow ; 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame. 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name : 

Little,  alas !  they  know  or  heed 

How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed ! 

Fair  trees  !  where'er  your  barks  I  wound. 

No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passions'  heat. 

Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat: 


ANDREW  MARVELL  149 

The  gods,  that  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race ; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine ; 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less. 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness ; 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas ; 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root. 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside. 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  Garden-state 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet  I 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there : 
Two  paradises  'twere  in  one. 
To  live  in   Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run : 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  I 


150    THE    AIODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
HENRY  VAUGHAN  (1622-1695) 

The  Retreat 

TJTAPPY  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy  1 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space, 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  Conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense ; 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright   shoots   of   everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back. 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train ; 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm-trees. 
But  ah  !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love. 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And,  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

Friends  Departed 

'T'lIEY  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light! 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here ; 
Their  very  memory  is   fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast. 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  dressed 
After  the   sun's   remove. 


JOHN  BUNYAN  151 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days : 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope  I  and  high  Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them  me, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death!  the  jewel  of  the  Justl 

Shining  nowhere,  but  in  the  dark; 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust. 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark  I 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know. 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
Bvit  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  j'et,  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 

Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

Ha  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb. 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there ; 
But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives  room, 
She'll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  Thee ! 
Resume  Thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass : 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill. 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


JOHN  BUNYAN  (1628-1 
Shepherd  Boy's  Song 

TJE  that  is  down  needs  fear  no  fall, 

He  that  is  low,  no  pride ; 
He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 
Have  God  to  be  his  guide.  .  .  . 

{Abridged') 


152    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
JOHN  DRYDEN  (1631-1700) 
Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton 

In    Tonson's   Folio   Edition    of   Paradise   Lost,    1688 

'T'HREE  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 

Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 
The  next  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go: 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 

From  "Alexander's  Feast" 


'*^  S  ""WAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  warlike  son — 
Aloft   in   awful   state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne ; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around. 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound, 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned)  ; 
The  lovely  Thais  b}''  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  j'outh  and  beauty's  pride : — 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair ! 


Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above — 
Such  is  the  povv'er  of  mighty  love! 
A  dragon's  fierj'  form  belied  the  god ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  lie  rode 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed. 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the 
world. 


JOHN  DRYDEN  •  153 

— The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound  1 

A  present  deity!  they  shout  around: 

A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound: 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres.  .  .  . 

Abridged. 

Song 

PAREWELL,  ungrateful  traitor! 

Farewell,  my  perjured  swain! 
Let  never  injured  creature 

Believe  a  man  again. 
The  pleasure  of  possessing 
Surpasses  all  expressing, 
But  'tis  too  short  a  blessing, 

And  love  too  long  a  pain. 

'Tis  easy  to  deceive  us. 

In  pity  of  your  pain ; 
But  when  we  love,  you  leave  US, 

To  rail  at  you  in  vain. 
Before  we  have  descried  it, 
There  is  no  bliss  beside  it, 
But  she,  that  once  has  tried  it, 

Will  never  love  again. 

The  passion  you  pretended. 

Was  only  to  obtain  : 
But  when  the  charm  is  ended. 

The  charmer  you  disdain. 
Your  love  by  ours  we  measure, 
Till  we  have  lost  our  treasure ; 
But  dying  is  a  pleasure. 

When  living  is  a  pain. 


Ah,  How  Sweet  It  Is  to  Love! 

A  H,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love ! 
"^       kh.  how  gay  is  young  Desire! 
And  what  pleasing  pains  we  prove 

When  we  first  approach  Love's  fire ! 
Pains  of  love  be  sweeter  far 
Than  all  other  pleasures  are. 


154    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Sighs  which  are  from  lovers  blown 

Do  but  gently  heave  the  heart : 
Ev'n  the  tears  they  shed  alone 

Cure,  like  trickling  balm,  their  smart. 
Lovers,  when  they  lose  their  breath, 
Bleed  away  in  easy  death. 

Love  and  Time  with  reverence  use, 
Treat  them  like  a  parting  friend ; 

Nor  the  golden  gifts  refuse 
Which  in  youth  sincere  they  send : 

For  each  year  their  price  is  more, 

And  they  less  simple  than  before. 

Love,  like  spring-tides  full  and  high, 

Swells  in  every  youthful  vein ; 
But  each  tide  does  less  supply, 

Till  they  quite  shrink  in  again : 
If  a  flow  in  age  appear, 
'Tis  but  rain,  and  runs  not  clear. 

CHARLES  SACKVILLE,  EARL  OF  DORSET  (1638-1706) 

Written  at  Sea,  in  the  First  Dutch  War  (1665), 
the  Night  Before  an  Engagement 

nnO  all  you  ladies  now  at  land 

We  men  at  sea  indite ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write : 
The  Muses  now,  and  Neptune  too. 
We  must  implore  to  write  to  you — 
With   a   fa,   la,   la,   la,   la. 

For  though  the  Muses  should  prove  kind. 

And  fill  our  empty  brain. 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind 

To  wave  the  azure  main. 
Our  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  we, 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

Then  if  we  write  not  by  each  post. 

Think  not  we  are  unkind ; 
Nor  yet  conclude  our  ships  are  lost 

By  Dutchmen  or  by  wind : 
Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way, 
The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a  day — 
With   a   fa,   la,   la,   la,   la. 


CHARLES  SACKVILLE,  EARL  OF  DORSET       155 

The  King  with  wonder  and  surprise 

Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold, 
Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise 

Than  e'er  they  did  of  old : 
But  let  them  know  it  is  our  tears 
Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall  stairs — 
With   a   fa,   la,   la,  la,  la. 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story, 
The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe. 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree : 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who've  left  their  hearts  behind? — 
With   a   fa,   la,   la,   la,   la. 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst. 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind ; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapor,  Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find  : 
*Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go, 
Or  who's  our  friend,  or  who's  our  foe — 
With  a   fa,   la,   la,   la,  la. 

To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away 

We  throw  a  merry  main, 
Or  else  at  serious  ombre  play: 

But  why  should  we  in  vain 
Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue? 
We  were  undone  when  we  left  you — 
With   a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow 

And  cast  our  hopes  away; 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  woe, 

Sit  careless  at  a  play: 
Perhaps  permit  some  happier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan — 
With   a   fa,   la,   la,   la,   la. 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear. 

That  dies  in  every  note 
As  if  it  sighed  with  each  man's  care 

For  being  so  remote, 
Think  then  how  often  love  we've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  played— 
With   a   fa,   la,   la,   la,   la. 


156    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

In  justice  j'on  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress, 
When  we  for  hopes  of  honor  lose 

Our   certain   happiness : 
All  those  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worthy  of  your  love — 
With   a   fa,   la,   la,   la,   la. 

And  now  we've  told  you  all  our  loves, 

And  likewise  all  our  fears. 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  for  our  tears : 
Let's  hear  of  no  inconstancy — 
We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea — 
With   a    fa,   la,   la,   la,   la. 

JOHN  WILAIOT.  EARL  OF  ROCHESTER  (1647-1680) 

Oil  Charles  II 

IJERE  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 

Who?e  v.'ord  no  man  relies  on. 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 
Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one. 


To  His  Mistress 

"lA/^IIY  dost  thou  shade  thy  lovely  face?    O,  why 
Docs  that  eclipsing  hand  of  thine  deny 
The  sunshine  of  the  Sun's  enlivening  eye? 

Without  tliy  light,  what  light  remains  in  me? 
Thou  art  my  life:  my  way,  my  light's  in  thee; 
I  live,  I  move,  and  by  thy  beams  I  see. 

Thou  art  my  life:  if  thou  but  turn  away, 

My  life's  a  thousand  deaths.    Thou  art  my  way: 

Without  thee,  Love,  I  travel  not,  but  stray. 

My  light  thou  art:  without  thy  glorious  sight. 
My  eyes  are  darkened  with  eternal  night. 
My  Love,  thou  art  my  way,  my  life,  my  light. 

Thou  art  my  way:   I  wander  if  thou  tly. 
Thou  art  my  light:  if  hid,  how  blind  am  I! 
Thou  art  my  life:  if  thou  witlidraw'st,  I  die. 


MATTHEW  PRIOR  157 

My  eyes  are  dark  and  blind,  I  cannot  see : 
To  whom,  or  whither  should  my  darkness  flee. 
But  to  that  light?  and  who's  that  light  but  thee? 

If  I  have  lost  my  path,  dear  lover,  say. 
Shall  I  still  wander  in  a  doubtftil  way? 
Love,  shall  a  lamb  of  Israel's  sheep-fold  stray? 

My  path  is  lost,  my  wandering  steps  do  stray, 

I  cannot  go,  nor  can  I  safely  stay: 

Whom  should  I  seek,  but  thee,  my  path,  my  way? 

And  yet  thou  turn'st  thy  face  away,  and  fly'st  me  1 
And  yet  I  sue  for  grace,  and  thou  deny'st  me  I 
Speak,  art  thou  angry,  love,  or  only  try'st  me  ?  .  .  . 

Thou  art  the  pilgrim's  path,  the  blind  man's  eye. 
The  dead  man's  life:  on  thee  my  hopes  rely: 
If  I  but  them  remove,  I  surely  die. 

Dissolve  thy  sunbeams,  close  thy  wings,  and  stay  I 
See,  see  how  I  am  blind,  and  dead,  and  stray, 
O  thou  that  art  my  life,  my  light,  my  way! 

Then  work  thy  will  I     If  passion  bid  me  flee 
My  reason  shall  obey,  my  wings  shall  be 
Stretched  out  no  farther  than  from  me  to  thee. 


MATTHEW  PRIOR  (1664-1721) 
ChJoe 

'HAT  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write,  shews 
The  difference  there  is  betwixt  nature  and  art; 
I  court  others  in  verse,  but  I  love  thee  in  prose ; 
And  they  have  my  whimsies,  but  thou  hast  my  heart. 

The  god  of  us  verse-men — you  know,  child — the  Sun, 

How  after  his  journey  he  sets  up  his  rest; 
If  at  morning  o'er  earth  'tis  his  fancy  to  run. 

At  night  he  reclines  on  his  Thetis's  breast. 

So  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day, 

To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come ; 
No  matter  what  beauties  I  saw  in  my  way, 

They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my  home. 


158    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
Epitaph  on  Himself 

■^"OBLES  and  heralds,  by  your  leave, 

•*"^        Here  lies  what  once  was  Matthew  Prior, 

The  son  of  Adam  and  of  Eve ; 

Can  Bourbon  or  Nassau  claim  higher? 

WILLIAM   CONGREVE    (1670-1729) 

From  "The  Mourning  Bride" 

jy/TUSIC  hath  charms  to  soothe  a  savage  beast, 

To  soften  rocks,  or  bend  a  knotted  oak. 
I've  read  that  things  inanimate  have  moved. 
And,  as  with  living  souls,  have  been  informed, 
By  magic  numbers  and  persuasive  sound. 

JOSEPH  ADDISON   (1672-1719) 

"The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High" 

Tf'HE  spacious  firmament  on  high. 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great   Original   proclaim. 
The  unwearied  Sun,  from  day  to  day, 
Does   his   Creator's   power  display ; 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail. 
The  Moon  takes  up  the  w'ondrous  tale ; 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  : 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 
Confirm   the   tidings   as   they  roll 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice ; 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine.'* 


ISAAC  WATTS  159 

ISAAC  WATTS    (1674-1748) 
'O  God!  Our  Help  in  Ages  Past'* 

Cy  GOD !  our  help  in  ages  past. 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast, 
And  our  eternal  home ! 

Under  the  shadow  of  Thy  Throne 

Thy  saints  have  dwelt  secure ; 
Sufficient  is  Thine  arm  alone, 

And  our  defense  is  sure. 

Before  the  hills  in  order  stood, 

Or  earth  received  her  fame, 
From  everlasting  Thou  art  God, 

To  endless  years  the  same. 

A  thousand  ages  in  Thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone ; 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 

Before  the  rising  sun. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away; 
They  fly,  forgotten,  as  a  dream 

Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

O  God !  our  help  in  ages  past, 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come. 
Be  Thou  our  guide  when  troubles  last. 

And  our  eternal  home ! 


WILLIAM  OLDYS  (1687-1761) 
On  a  Fly  Drinking  Out  of  His  Cup 

"DUSY,  curious,  thirsty  fly! 

Drink  with  me  and  drink  as  I : 
Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 
Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up: 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may, 
Life  is  short  and  wears  away. 

Both   alike   are   mine   and   thine. 
Hastening  quick  to  their  decline: 
Thine's  a  summer,  mine's  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  threescore. 
Threescore  summers,  when  they're  gone, 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one! 


160    THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

ALEXANDER  POPE  (1688-1744) 

From  "Satires" 

C  HUT,  shut  the  door,  good  John  1  fatigued  I  said, 

Tie  up  the  knocker;  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  dog-star  rages !  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt. 
All  bedlam  or  Parnassus  is  let  out: 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand, 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide? 
They  pijsrc?  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they  glide. 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge ; 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Ev'n  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath  day  to  me ; 
Then  from  the  mint  walks  forth  the  man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me  just  at  dinner  time. 
Is  there  a  parson,  much  bemused  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,   foredoomed  his   father's   soul  to  cross. 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross?  .  .  . 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws. 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damned  works  the  cause: 
Poor  Cornus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope, 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope.  .  .  . 

Why  did  I  write?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink;  my  parents',  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade. 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed : 
The  muse  but  served  to  ease  some  friend,  not  wife; 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life.  .  .  . 


From  the  "Essay  on  Man" 

^^H  Happiness!  our  being's  end  and  aim, 
^-^   Good,  Pleasure,  Ease,  Content,  whate'er  thy  name; 
That  something  still  which  prompts  the  eternal  sigh. 
For  which  we  bear  to  live,  or  dare  to  die, 
Which,  still  so  near  us,  yet  beyond  us  lies, 
O'crlooked,  seen  double,  by  the  fool,  and  wise!  .  .  . 
Ask  of  the  learned  the  way!  the  learned  are  blind; 
This  bids  to  serve,  and  that  to  shun  mankind ; 
Some  place  the  bliss  in  action,  some  in  ease ; 


ALEXANDER  POPE  161 

Those  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment  these ; 
Some  sunk  to  beasts,  find  pleasure  end  in  pain ; 
Some  swelled  to  gods,  confess  even  virtue  vain; 
Or   indolent,   to   each   extreme   they    fall, 
To  trust  in  everything,  or  doubt  of  all. 


Fro7n  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock" 

A  ND  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed, 

Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid : 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores. 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears. 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eye  she  rears ; 
The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side, 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear ; 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil. 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box : 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billet-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms. 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace. 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise. 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care, 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair; 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the  gown. 
And  Betty's  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 


The  Dying  Christian  to  His  Soul 

"YT'ITAL  spark  of  heav'nly  flame ! 
Quit,  O  quit  this  mortal  frame: 

Trembling,  hoping,  ling'ring,  flying, 

O  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying! 
Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 


162    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Hark!  they  whisper;  angels  say, 

Sister  Spirit,  come  away  I 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite? 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight. 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death? 

The  world  recedes;  it  disappears! 
Heav'n  opens  on  my  eyes !  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring! 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  !     I  mount !     I  fly  1 
O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory? 

O  Death!  where  is  thy  sting? 


JAMES  THOMSON  (1700-1748) 

From  "The  Castle  of  Indolence'* 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye: 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky: 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Distil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast, 
And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hovered  nigh ; 
But  whate'er  smacked  of  noyance  or  unrest 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest.  .  . 

Behold !  ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold ! 
See  all  but  man  with  unearned  pleasure  gay: 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  luifold. 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of  May! 
What  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array? 
Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie? 
From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to  stray. 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to  fly, 
Is  all  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant  sky.  .  .  . 

Come,  ye  who  still  the  cumbrous  load  of  life 
Push  hard  up  hill ;  but  as  the  furthest  steep 
You  trust  to  gain,  and  put  an  end  to  strife, 
Down  thunders  back  the  stone  with  mighty  sweep, 
And  hurls  your  labors  to  the  valleys  deep, 
For  ever  vain ;  come,  and,  withouten  fee, 
I,  in  oblivion  will  your  sorrows  steep, 
Your  cares,  your  toils,  will   steep  you  in  a  sea 
Of  full  delight:    Oh  come,  ye  weary  wights,  to  me! 


HENRY  CAREY  163 

Rule,  Britannia 

{From  "Alfred") 

■^XTHEN  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 
'^'        Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 
And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain : 
Rule,  Britannia,  ride  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 

Must,  in  their  turns,  to  tyrants  fall. 
Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish,  great  and  free, 

The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame ; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

But  work  their  woe,  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine ; 
Ail  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles,  thine. 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found. 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair: 
Blest  Isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

HENRY  CAREY   (i693?-i743) 
Sally  in  Our  Alley 

C\  F  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 
^'^       There's  none  like  pretty  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 
And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em ; 


164    THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 
To  such  as  please  to  buy  'cm ; 

But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 
So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely ; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely : 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 

ril_  bear  it  all  for  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Alonday ; 
For  then  I'm  dressed  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named ; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 

And   slink  away  to   Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 

O,  then  I  shall  have  money; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey: 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And,  but  for  her,  I'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out, 

O,  then  I'll  marry  Sally; 
O,  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed — 

But  not  in  our  alley  I 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  165 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON  (1709-1784) 
Onc-and-Twenty 

T  ONG-EXPECTED  One-and-twenty, 
Ling'ring  year,  at  Icnp^th  is  flown  : 
Pride  and  pleasure,  pomp  and  plenty, 
Great  ***  ****,  are  now  your  own. 

Loosen'd  from  the  minor's  tether, 

Free  to  mortgage  or  to  sell, 
Wild  as  wind  and  light  as  feather. 

Bid  the  sons  of  thrift  farewell. 

Call  the  Betsies,  Kates,  and  Jennies, 

All  the  names  that  banish  care; 
Lavish  of  your  grandsire's  guineas, 

Show  the  spirit  of  an  heir. 

All  that  prey  on  vice  and  folly 

Joy  to  see  their  quarry  fly: 
There's  the  gamester,  light  and  jolly, 

There's  tlie  lender,  grave  and  sly. 

Wealth,  my  lad,  was  made  to  wander. 

Let  it  wander  as  it  will ; 
Call  the  jockey,  call  the  pander. 

Bid  them  come  and  take  their  fill. 

When  the  bonny  blade  carouses, 

Pockets  full,  and  spirits  high — 
What  are  acres  ?  what  are  houses  ? 

Only  dirt,  or  wet  or  dry. 

Should  the  guardian  friend  or  mother 

Tell  the  woes  of  wilful  waste. 
Scorn  their  counsel,  scorn  their  pother;-^ 

You  can  hang  or  drown  at  last ! 

WILLIAM    SHENSTONE    (1714-1763) 
Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley 

'X'O  thee,  fair  freedom !  I  retire 

From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din; 
Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 
Than  the  low  cot,  or  humble  inn. 


166    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

'Tis  here  with  boundless  power  I  reign; 

And  every  health  which  I  begin, 
Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne ; 

Such  freedom  crowns  it,  at  an  inn. 

I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate ! 

I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin  I 
Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate. 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

Here,  waiter !  take  my  sordid  ore. 
Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to  win ; 

It  buys,  what  courts  have  not  in  store ; 
It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn. 

Whoe'er  has  traveled  life's  dull  round. 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome,  at  an  inn. 


THOMAS  GRAY   (1716-1771) 
Elegy  Written  In  a  Country  Churchyard 

TPHE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 


THOMAS  GRAY  167 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke: 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  1 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  1 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour : 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  un fathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden  that,  with  dauntless  breast. 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 


168    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  ^luse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supplj': 

And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries. 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  imhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred   spirit  shall   inquire  thy   fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 


THOMAS  GRAY  1G9 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  noddinpf  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  v/ith  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  'customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his   favorite  tree; 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he: 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH 

ZJERE  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 

A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Hea7'en  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to   Misery    (all  he   had)    a  tear. 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  ivished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draiv  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trcmblinn  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

From  "The  Progress  of  Poetry,"  a  Pindaric  Ode 

p'A.R  from  the  suti  and  summer  gale,_ 

In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray'd, 

To  Him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face :  the  dauntless  child 
Stretch'd  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said),  whose  colours  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year : 
Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy; 
Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears. 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears. 


170    THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Nor  second  he,  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 
The  secrets  of  th'  abyss  to  spy. 

He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time : 
The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire-blaze, 
Where  Angels  tremble  while  they  gaze. 
He  saw;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light. 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold,  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race. 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding  pace. 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore ! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy  hovering  o'er 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 

Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 
But  ah !  'tis  heard  no  more 

O  Lyre  divine !  what  daring  Spirit 

Wakes  thee  now?    Tho'  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air : 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray, 
With  orient  hues,  unborrow'd  of  the  Sun : 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate. 
Beneath  the  Good  how  far — but  far  above  the  Great. 

WILLIAM  COLLINS    (1721-1759) 
Fidele's  Dirge 

'  I  ""O  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom. 
And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove. 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 

And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen, 
No   goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew ; 

The  female  fays  shall  haimt  the  green. 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew ; 


WILLIAM  COLLINS  171 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours, 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers, 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain, 

In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 
Or  midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain, 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell. 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed ; 
Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more; 

And  mourned  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 


"How  Sleep  the  Brave'* 

OW  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there  I 


Ode  to  Evening 

TF  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song. 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 
Thy  springs  and  dying  gales ; 

0  Nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 


172    THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

As  oft  he  rises,  'midst  the  twilight  path 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 

May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 
As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  pal}'  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The   fragrant  Hours,  and   Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge. 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car : 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallowed  pile, 

Or  upland  fallows  gray 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain. 
Prevent  my  willing   feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That,   from  the  mountain's   side. 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  of  the  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves, 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Afi'rights  thy  shrinking  tr:n'n, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes : 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule. 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  hymn  thy  favorite  name! 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART  173 

CHRISTOPHKR   SAIART    (1722-1771) 

From  "Song  to  David" 

CWEET  is  the  dew  that  falls  betimes, 
_     And  drops  upon  the  leafy  limes ; 

Sweet,   Hermon's    fragrant  air : 
Sweet  is  the  lily's  silver  bell, 
And  sweet  the  wakeful  tapers'  smell 

That  watch  for  early  pra3'er. 

Sweet  the  young  nurse,  with  love  intense, 
Which  smiles  o'er  sleeping  innocence ; 

Sweet,   when   the   lost  arrive : 
Sweet  the  musician's  ardor  beats, 
While  his  vague  mind's  in  quest  of  sweets, 

The  choicest  flowers  to  hive. 

Strong  is  the  horse  upon  his  speed ; 
Strong  in  pursuit  the  rapid  glede, 

Which  makes  at  once  his  game : 
Strong  the  tall  ostrich  on  the  ground ; 
Strong  through  the  turbulent  profound 

Shoots  Xiphias  to  his  aim. 

Strong  is  the  lion — like  a  coal 
His  eyeball, — like  a  bastion's  mole 

His  chest  against  the  foes : 
Strong  the  gier-eagle  on  his  sail ; 
Strong  against  tide  the  enormous  whale 

Emerges  as  he  goes. 

But  stronger  still,  in  earth  and  air, 
And  in  the  sea,  the  man  of  prayer, 

And  far  beneath  the  tide : 
And  in  the  seat  to  fate  assigned. 
Where  ask  is  have,  where  seek  is  find. 

Where  knock  is  open  wide. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH   (1728-1774) 

From  "The  Deserted  Village" 

CWEET  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where_  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain. 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed : 


174    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please : 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness   endeared   each   scene ! 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn-bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place ; 
Unskillful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines   fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule; 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  175 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 

I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew: 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 

The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 

Full  well  they  laughed,  with  counterfeited  glee. 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Convej'ed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned ; 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew ; 

'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 

For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still. 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.    The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. — 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  graj'beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired. 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place, — 
The  whitewashed  wall ;  the  nicely  sanded  floor ; 
The  varnished  clock  that  ticked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornaments  and  use ; 
The  twelve  good  rules ;  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay; 
While  broken  tea-cups  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors !   could  not  all 

Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 

An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart; 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 

To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 

No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 


176    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowlj'  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  glow  of  art. 


Woman 

TXT" HEN  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy? 
What  art  can  wash  her  tears  away? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
To  hide  her  shame  from  ev'ry  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom  is — to  die. 


WILLIAM   COWPER    (1731-1800) 
To  Mary  Unwin 

"jl^ARY !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings. 

Such  aid  from  Heaven  as  some  have  feigned  they 
drew. 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things ; 
That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honor  due. 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true. 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings : 
But  thou  hast  little  need.     There  is  a  Book 
By  seraphs   writ  with  beams  of  heavenlv  light. 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright: 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine; 

And,  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 


WILLIAM  COWPER  177 

From  "The  Task";  Book  HI,  "The  Garden" 

T  WAS  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd 

Long  since ;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  hy  One  who  had  Himself 
Been  hurt  by  the  archers.     In  his  side  He  bore, 
And  in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With   gentle    force  soliciting  the   darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with   few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene ; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come. 
I  see  that  all  are  wanderers,  gone  astray 
Each  in  his  own  delusions ;  they  are  lost 
In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  wooed 
And  never  won.     Dream  after  dream  ensues. 
And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed 
And   still   are  disappointed.     Rings  the  world 
With  the  vain  stir.     I  sum  up  half  mankind 
And  add  two-thirds  of  the  remaining  half. 
And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
Dreams,  empty  dreams. 

From  "The  Task" 

^JOW  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each. 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 

A  Comparison.    Addressed  to  a  Young  Lady 

CWEET  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade, 

Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid ! 
Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 
Far  from  the  world's  gay,  busy  throng, 
With  gentle,  yet  prevailing  force, 
Intent  upon  her  destined  course; 
Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 
Blessing  and  blessed  where'er  she  goes; 
Pure-bosomed  as  that  watery  glass, 
And  heaven  reflected  in  her  face! 


178    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 
Boadicea.     An  Ode 

ll/'HEN  the   British  Warrior   Queen, 
"^      Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods. 
Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of   her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beneath  a  spreading  oak 

Sat  the  druid,  hoary  chief, 
Every  burning  word  he  spoke 

Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief: 

Princess !  if  our  aged  eyes 
Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

'Tis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

"Rome  shall  perish, — write  that  word 

In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt ; 
Perish  hopeless  and  abhorred, 

Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

"Rome,   for  empire   far  renowned, 

Tramples  on  a  thousand  states. 
Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground, — 

Hark!  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates. 

"Other  Romans  shall  arise. 

Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name, 
Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize. 

Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

"Then  the  progeny  that  springs 

From  the  forests  of  our  land. 
Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings. 

Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

"Regions  Cassar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway, 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew. 

None  invincible  as  they." 

Such  the  bards  prophetic  words. 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride. 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow. 


WILLIAM  COWPER  179 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought  and  died, 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

"Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due; 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed. 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you !" 

On  the  Loss  of  the  "Royal  George" 

'X'OLL  for  the  brave ! 

•■•     The  brave  that  are  no  more  I 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Fast  by  their  native  shore  I 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave 

Whose  courage  was  well-tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel. 

And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  "Royal  George" 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought ; 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up. 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tears  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound. 

And  she  may  float  again 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 


ISO    THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er, 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  waves  no  more. 

ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD  (1743-1825) 

Life 

T  IFE !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 

But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 
But  this  I  know,  when  thou  art  fled. 
Where'er  they  lay  these  limbs,  this  head, 
No  clod  so  valueless  shall  be 
As  all  that  then  remains  of  me. 

O  whither,  whither  dost  thou  fly? 
Where  bend  unseen  thy  trackless  course? 

And  in  this  strange  divorce. 
Ah,  tell  where  I  must  seek  this  compound  I? 
To  the  vast  ocean  of  empyreal  flame 

From  whence  thy  essence  came 
Dost  thou  thy  flight  pursue,   when   freed 
From   matter's   base   encumbering  weed? 

Or  dost  thou,  hid  from  sight. 

Wait,  like  some  spell-bound  knight. 
Through  blank  oblivious  years  the  appointed  hour 
To  break  thy  trance  and  reassume  thy  power? 
Yet  canst  thou  without  thought  or  feeling  be? 
O  saj%  what  art  thou,  when  no  more  thou'rt  thee? 

Life!  we  have  been  long  together, 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear ; 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; — 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning. 
Choose  thine  own   time ; 
Say  not  Good-night,  but  in  some  brighter  clime 
Bid  me  Good-morning! 

SIR  WILLIAM  JONES    (1746-1704) 
The  State 

"V\7'HAT  constitutes  a  State? 

^    Not  high  rais'd  battlement  or  labor'd  mound, 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate; 


JOHN  LOGAN  181 

Not  cities  proud  with  spies  and  turrets  crown'd ; 

Not  ba^'s  and  broad  arm'd  ports. 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride, 

Not  starr'd  and  spangled  courts, 
Where  low-brow'd  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride, 

No  : — Men,  high-minded   Men, 
With  pow'rs  as   far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude ; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and  knowing,  dare  maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aim'd  blow. 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain : 

These  constitute  a  State, 
And  sov'reign  Law,  that  State's  collected  will. 

O'er   thrones   and   globes   elate 
Sits   Empress,   crowning  good,   repressing  ill ; 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown 
The  fiend.  Discretion,  like  a  vapor  sinks. 

And  e'en  th'  all-dazzling  Crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  this  heav'n-lov'd  isle. 
Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore  I 

No  more  shall  freedom  smile? 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  Men  no  more? 

Since  all  must  life  resign. 
Those  sweet  rewards,  which  decorate  the  brave, 

'Tis  folly  to  decline, 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 


JOHN  LOGAN   (1748-1788) 

To  the  Cuckoo 

XJA.IL,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grovel 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 
And  woods  thy  welcome  ring. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear : 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year? 

Delightful  visitant !   with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 


183    THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

The  school-boy,  wandering  through  the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  Spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fli'st  thy  vocal  vale. 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands. 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird !  thy  bovver  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  Winter  in  thy  year ! 

O  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe. 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 

THOMAS    CHATTERTON    (1752-1770) 
Minstrel's  Song  in  "Ella!' 

OH  !  sing  unto  my  roundelay ; 
Oh  !  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me ; 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday. 
Like  a  running  river  be ; 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night. 

White  his  neck  as  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below: 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note. 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout; 
Oh !  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Hark!  the  raven  flaps  his  wing, 
In  the  briered  dell  below ; 


GEORGE  CRABBE  183 

Hark!  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing. 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud ; 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave, 

Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid. 
Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  bind  the  briers, 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre ; 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fires. 
Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn. 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn. 
Dance  by  night,  and  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Water-witches,  crowned  with  reytes, 

Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide. 
I  die — I  come — my  true-love  waits. 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 


GEORGE  CRABBE  (1754-1832) 

The  Parish  Workhouse  from  "The  Village*' 

'X'HEIRS  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  village  poor, 

Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door ; 
There,  where  the  putrid  vapors  flagging,  play. 
And  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day; 


184    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents'  care ; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children's  love,  dwell  there; 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 
Forsaken  wives  and  mothers  never  wed. 
Dejected   widows  with  unheeded  tears, 
And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood  fears ; 
The  lame,  the  blind,  and,  far  the  happiest  they  I 
The  moping  idiot  and  the  madman  gay.  .  .  . 
Say  ye,  oppressed  by  some  fantastic  woes. 
Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose; 
Who  press  the  downy  couch,  while  slaves  advance 
With  timid  eye,  to  read  the  distant  glance ; 
Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease, 
To  name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease ; 
Who  with  mock  patience  dire  complaints  endure, 
Which  real  pain  and  that  alone  can  cure ; 
How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to_  lie, 
Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die? 
How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath 
Where  all  that's  wretched  pave  the  way  for  death? 


"Age,  with  Stealing  Steps  .  .  /' 

{From  "Talcs  of  the  Hall") 

0  IX  years  had  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  six, 
^  When  time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks ; 
The  locks  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight. 

Locks  of  pure  brown,  displayed  tlie  encroaching  white; 

The  blood,  once  fervid,  now  to  cool  began, 

And  Time's  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man. 

I  rode  or  walked  as  I  was  wont  before. 

But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more ; 

A  moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  heat; 

A  walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet. 

I  showed  my  stranger  guest  those  hills  sublime, 

But  said,  "The  view  is  poor;   wc  need  not  climb." 

At  a  friend's  mansion  I  began  to  dread 

The  cold  neat  parlour   and  the  gaj'  glazed  bed : 

At  home  I   felt  a  more  decided  taste. 

And  must  have  all  things  in  my  order  placed. 

I  ceased  to  hunt ;  my  horses  pleased  me  less — 

My  dinner  more ;  I  learned  to  play  at  chess. 

1  took  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
Was  disappointed  that  I  did  not  shoot. 

My  morning  walks  I  now  could  bear  to  lose, 

And  blessed   the   shower  that  gave   me   not  to   choose : 

In  fact,  I  felt  a  languor  stealing  on ; 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  185 

The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand,  were  gone; 

Small  daily  actions  into  habits  grew. 

And  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new. 

I  loved  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose ; 

I  numbered  peaches,  looked  how  stocks  arose ; 

Told  the  same  story  oft — in  short,  began  to  prose. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE   (1757-1S27) 
Reeds  of  Innocence 

pIPING  down  the  valleys  wild, 
•^         Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he  laughing  said  to  me : — 

"Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb !" 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

"Piper,  pipe  that  song  again." 
So  I  piped :  he  wept  to  hear. 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer  1" 
So  I  sang  the  same  again. 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  v/rite 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  road." 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight ; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed. 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

Infant  Joy 

T  have  no  name  ; 

I  am  but  two  days  old." 
What  shall  I  call  thee? 
"I  happy  am, 
Joy  is  my  name." 
Sweet  joy  befall  thee  I 

Pretty  joy! 

Sweet  joy,  but  two  days  old. 

Sweet  joy  I  call  thee; 

Thou  dost  smile, 

I  sing  the  while ; 

Sweet  joy  befall  thee! 


186    THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 
My  Silks  and  Fine  Array 

ly^'Y  silks  and  fine  array, 

My  smiles  and  languished  air; 
By   love   are   driven   away. 

And   mournful    lean    Despair 
Brings   me  yew   to   deck  my  grave : 
Such  end   true   lovers  have. 

His    face   is    fair   as  heaven 
When   springing  buds  unfold ; 

Oh,   why  to   him   was't  given. 
Whose   heart   is    wintry  cold? 

His  breast  is   Love's   all-worshipped  tomb 

Where  all   love's   pilgrims   come. 

Bring  me   an   axe   and   spade, 
Bring    me    a    winding    sheet; 

When    I    my  grave   have   made. 
Let   winds    and   tempests   beat: 

Then   down   I'll   lie,   as   cold   as   clay, 

True   love    doth   pass   away. 

The  Tiger 

'  [""IGER,  tiger,  burning  bright 
""•     In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What   immortal   hand    or  eye 
Could   frame  thy   fearful  symmetry? 

In   what   distant   deeps   or   skies 
Burnt   the    fire    of   thine   eyes? 
On   what   wings    dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand   dare  seize  the  fire? 

And   what   shoulder,   and  what   art, 
Could    twist   the    sinews   of   thy   heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand?  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What   the   anvil?   what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  water'd  heaven  with  their  tears. 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see? 
Did  he  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee? 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  187 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

The  Voice  of  the  Bard 

"LI  EAR  the  voice  of  the  Bard, 

Who  present,  past,  and  future,  sees; 
Whose  ears  have  heard 
The  Holy  Word 
That  walk'd  among  the  ancient  trees ; 

Calling  the  lapsed  soul, 

And  weeping  in  the  evening  dew ; 

That  might  control 

The  starry  pole, 

And  fallen,   fallen  light  renew ! 

"0_ Earth,  O  Earth,  return! 

Arise  from  out  the  dewy  grass  I 

Night  is  worn, 

And  the  morn 

Rises  from  the  slumbrous  mass. 

"Turn  away  no  more ; 

Why  wilt  thou  turn  away? 

The  starry  floor. 

The  watery  shore. 

Is  given  thee  till  the  break  of  day." 

Ah,  Sunflower 

A  H.  Sunflower,  weary  of  time, 
■^^  Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun. 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime 
Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done — 

Where  the  youth  pined  away  with   desire, 
And  the  pale  virgin,  shrouded  in  snow. 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go  I 

Milton 

A  ND  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 

Walk  upon  England's  mountains  green? 
And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 
On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen? 


188     THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

And  did  the  Countenance  Divine 
Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills? 

And  was  Jerusalem  builded  here 
Among  these  dark  Satanic  mills? 

Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold ! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire ! 
Bring  me  my  spear !  O  clouds,  unfold ! 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire ! 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight. 

Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 


A  Poison  Tree 

T  was  angry  with  my  friend  : 

I  told  my  wrath,  my  wrath   did  end. 
I  was  angry  with  my  foe : 
I  told  it  not,  my  wrath  did  grow. 

And  I  watered  it  in  fears. 
Night  and  morning  with  my  tears ; 
And  I  sunned  it  with  smiles 
And  with  soft  deceitful  wiles. 

And  it  grew  both  day  and  night, 
Till  it  bore  an  apple  bright ; 
And  my  foe  beheld  it  shine. 
And  he  knew  that  it  was  mine. 

And  into  my  garden  stole 

When  the  night  had  veiled  the  pole; 

In  the  morning  glad  I  see 

My  foe  outstretched  beneath  the  tree. 


The  Garden  of  Love 

T  went  to  the  Garden  of  Love, 

And    I   saw   what   I   never  had   seen : 
A  chapel  was  built  in  the  midst. 
Where  I  used  to  play  on  the  green. 

And  the  gates  of  this  chapel  were  shut. 
And   "Thou   shalt  not"   writ  over  the   door; 
So  I  turned  to  the  Garden  of  Love 
That  so  many  sweet  flowers  bore; 


ROBERT  BURNS  191 

And  I  saw  it  was  filled  with  graves, 

And  tomb-stones  where  flowers  should  be : 

And  Priests  in  black  gowns  were  walking  their 

rounds, 
And  binding  with  briars  my  joys  and  desires. 


From  "The  Grey  Monk'* 

15  UT  vain  the  Sword  and  vain  the  Bow, 

They  never  can  work  War's  overthrow. 
The  Hermit's  prayer  and  the  Widow's  Tear 
Alone  can  free  the  World  from  fear. 

For  a  Tear  is  an  Intellectual  Thing, 
And  a  Sigh  is  the  Sword  of  an  Angel  King, 
And  the  Ijitter  groan  of  the  Martyr's  woe 
Is  an  arrow  from  the  Almightie's  bow. 


ROBERT   BURNS  (i759-i796) 

Bonnie  Doon 

VE  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair ! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care ! 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  T  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine. 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love ; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pti'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree : 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


190    THE    MODERN    BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 
"Comin'  Through  the  Rye" 

f^  OMIN'  through  the  Rye.  poor  body/ 

Comin'  through  the  Rye, 
She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie, 
Comin'  through  the  Rye. 

Oh  Jennjf's  a'  wat  poor  bodj% 

Jenny's   seldom  dry ; 
She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Comin"  through  the  Rye. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body, 

Comin'  through  tlie  Rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry? 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'    through    the    glen, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  the  warld  ken? 

"Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  Of" 

TP HERE'S  naught  but  care  on  every  han'. 

In  every  hour  that  passes,  O  I 
What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An'  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O? 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  tlie  lasses,  O ! 

The  warl'ly  race  maj'  riches  chase, 
An'  riches  still  may  fiy  tliem,  O  ! 
An'  though  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  01 

Gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en ; 
My  arms  about  my  dearie.  O  I 
An*  warl'ly  cares,  an'  warl'ly  men, 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O ! 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this  ; 
Ye'er  naught  but  senseless  asses,  O  I 
The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw 
He  dearly  loved  the  lasses,  01 


ROBERT  BURNS  191 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O ! 
Her  'prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O  I 


"Ae  Fond  Kiss" 

A  E  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
■^*'   Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee  I 

Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him 
While  the  star  of  Hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu*  twinkle  lights  me, 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy; 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy; 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her, 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 

Had   we  never  loved   sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved   sae  blindly, 
Never  met,  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee! 


My  Bonnie  Mary 

f^O  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine,_ 
^^       And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie. 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go. 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie.  _ 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith, 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws   frae  the   ferry, 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law. 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 


192    THE    MODERN   BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes   thick  and  bloody; 
But  it's  no  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor   shout  o'   war  that's   heard   afar — 

It's   leaving  thee,   my  bonnic   Mary! 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 

f\  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
^^        That's  newly  sprung  in  June ; 
O,  my  luve's  like  the  melodic 
That's  sweetl}'  played  in  tune. 

As   fair  thou  art,  my  bonnie  lass. 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I ; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve. 

Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Jean 

^\  F  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 
^"^        I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There's  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  hill  between ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair: 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


ROBERT  BURNS  193 

Auld  Lang  Syne 

OHOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
'^       And  never  brought  to  min'? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  days  o'  lang  syne? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For   auld   lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  rin  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine ; 
But  we've  wandered  monie  a  weary  fit 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  in  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  wilHe-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp. 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine. 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne  I 

Bruce  to  His  Men  at  Bannockburn 

C  COTS,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
^    Scots,  wham  Bruce  hae  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victory ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour : 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour : 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power,— 
Chains  and  slavery ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee! 


194    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  1 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains, 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  lowl 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  I — 
Let  us  do  or  dee ! 


John  Anderson 

JOHN  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snow ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  thcgither, 
And  mony  a  canty  day.  John, 
We've  had  wi'  ane  anither : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
But  hand  in   hand   we'll   go, 
And  sleep  thcgither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 


Highland  Mary 

"Y"  E  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlic! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langcst  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last   farewecl 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


ROBERT  BURNS  195 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours   on   angel's   wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was   fu'  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 
But,  O !  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipped  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ; 
And  moldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

To  Alary  in  Heaven 

TPHOU  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 
Thou  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary!  dear  departed  shade! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove. 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love! 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace, — 

Ah!  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last! 

Ayr.  gurgHng,_  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 
O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green ; 


196    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 
Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene ; 

The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  pressed, 
The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, — 

Till  soon,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ! 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary!  dear  departed  shade! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

JAMES  HOGG  (1770-1835) 
A  Boy's  Song 

■^l^^nERE  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 

'     Where  the  gray  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river  and  over  the  lea. 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest. 
Where  the  hawthorn  blooms  the  sweetest. 
Where  the  nestlings  chirp  and  flee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  mowers  mow  the  cleanest, 
Where  the  hay  lies  thick  and  greenest, 
There  to  track  the  homeward  bee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest. 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest. 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free. 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Why  the  boys  should  drive  away 
Little  sweet  maidens  from  the  play, 
Or  love  to  banter  and  fight  so  well, 
That's  the  thing  I  never  could  tell. 

But  this  I  know,  I  love  to  play 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay; 
Up  the  water  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  197 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  (1770-1850) 
Lucy 


CTRANGE  fits  of  passion  I  have  known : 
^       And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 
But  in  the  lover's  ear  alone, 
What  once  to  me  befell. 

When  she  I  loved  was  strong  and  gay, 

And  like  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 

Beneath  the  evening  moon. 

Upon  the  moon  I  fixed  my  eye, 

All  over  the  wide  lea; 
My  horse  trudged  on — and  we  drew  nigh 

Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  reached  the  orchard  plot ; 

And  as  we  climbed  the  hill. 
Towards  the  roof  of  Lucy's  cot 

The  moon  descended  still. 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 

Kind  nature's  gentlest  boon ! 
And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 

On  the  descending  moon. 

My  horse  moved  on ;  hoof  after  hoof 

He  raised,  and  never  stopped : 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof, 

At  once,  the  bright  moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  lover's  head ! — 
"Oh,  mercy!"  to  myself  I  cried, 

"If  Lucy  should  be  dead  1" 


She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 

A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love : 


198    THE   MODERN    BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    VERSE 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me ' 


IV 


Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then   Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse :  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain. 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall   feel   an   overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers   shall   be  the  breathing  balm. 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mold  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  199 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal  ; 

I  had  no  human  fears : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  or  force ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees ; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

The  Solitary  Reaper 

"DEHOLD  her,  single  in  the  field. 

Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  I 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  I 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain ; 
O  listen !  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  Travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  fiow 


200    THE   MODERN    BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

For  old,  unhappy,   far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  I 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

Perfect  Woman 

CHE  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine   ; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned. 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still  and  bright 

With  something  of  angelic  licht. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  201 

The  Rainbow 

A^'Y  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

^      A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die ! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


To  the  Cuckoo 

f\  blithe  new-comer  !     I  have  heard, 
^"^        I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 
O  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass, 

Thy  two-fold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only,  to  the  vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring  1 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an   invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

I  listened  to ;  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways. 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again. 


202    THE    MODERN    BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    VERSE 

O  blessed  Bird !  the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place; 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee! 


"I  JVandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud!* 

T  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills. 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  cloud, 
A  host  of  golden  daffodils  ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  ga3% 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I   gazed — and   gazed — but   little   thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


Sojinets 

Scorn  Not  the  Sonnet 

C  CORN  not  the  sonnet ;  critic,  you  have  frowned, 

Mindless  of  its  just  honors; — with  this  key 
Shakespeare   unlocked   his   heart;   the   melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 
Camoens  soothed  with  it  an  exile's  grief ; 
The  sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with   v,'hich  Dante  crowned 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  203 

His  visionary  brow :   a  glow-worm   lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  faery-land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  thing  became  a  trumpet,  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few ! 


The  Sonnet-Prison 

^^UNS  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ; 

And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells ; 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels : 
Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom, 
High  as  the  highest  peak  of  Furness  Fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells : 
In  truth,  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is :  and  hence  to  me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground 
Pleased  if  some  souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 


Sunset  and  Sea 

TT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 
Is   sinking  down  in   its  tranquillity; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea: 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 
And  doth  with  His  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear  child !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear'st  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year ; 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


The  World  Is  Too  Much  With  Us 

'T'HE  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers ; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  I 


204    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And   are  up-gathcrcd   now   like   sleeping   flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God !  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


Composed  upon.  fFestminster  Bridge,  September 
3,  1802 

P  ARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beaut}'  of  the  morning:   silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theaters,  and  temples  He 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 


England,  1 802 


C\  friend!     I  know  not  which  way  T  must  look 
^"^       For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  oppressed, 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  dressed 
For  show;  mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook, 
Or  groom ! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest : 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best : 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense. 
This  is  idolatry;  and  these  we  adore: 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more: 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  205 


Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 
Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea: 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

Abridged. 

Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality  from 
Recollections  of  Early  Childhood 


'T'HERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore;— 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

n 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes. 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose ; 

The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Ill 

Now,  while  the  Birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 

And  while  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief  t 

A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 


206    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  Cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep: 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  Sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday; — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy  Shep- 
herd boy ! 

IV 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — T  feel  it  all. 

0  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning 

This  sweet  May  morning, 
And  the  Children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers  ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm : — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 

— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 
The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream?  ' 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting. 
And  comcth  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgctfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  207 

But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  East 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  spendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 
And  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind. 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can. 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  Mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  Father's  eyes  I 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life. 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife: 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside. 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage'* 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

vm 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind. 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 


203    THE  MODERN   ROOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind. — 

Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave: 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke. 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 


O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest,_ 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast:— 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 

But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  povv-er  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never. 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor. 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  209 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither. 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  songl 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  Brooks,  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they: 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


210    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

From  "Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  Above 
Tintern  Abbey'* 

.  .  .  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is  lightened : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame. 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmonj',  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  For  nature 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days. 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite :  a  feeling  and  a  love. 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more. 
And  all  its  dizzj'  raptures.    Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 
Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.    For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  211 

Ode  to  Duty 

CTERN  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  Godl 

'^   O  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love, 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring  and  reprove ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  1 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  Hearts  I  without  reproach  or  blot. 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 

0,  if  through  confidence  misplaced 

They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power !  around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

1,  loving  freedom,  and  untried ; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires ; 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 


212    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Nor  know  \vc  anythinp:  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds. 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh  and 
strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  1 

I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 

O,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  1 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live! 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT    (1771-1832) 
Hunting  Song 

■^S^AKEN.  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
^^     On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here. 
With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear  I 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling. 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling. 
Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming, 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,   lords   and   ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size  ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed; 
You   shall   see   him  brought  to   bay; 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  213 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 

Tell  them  j^outh,  and  mirth,  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 

Time,  stern  huntsman !  who  can  balk, 

Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk? 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 


Lucy  Ashton's  Song 


L 


OOK  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming; 
Sit  thou  still  when  kings  are  arming; 
Taste  not  when  the  wine-cup  glistens ; 
Speak  not  when  the  people  listens ; 
Stop  thine  ear  against  the  singer ; 
From  the  red  gold  keep  thy  finger ; 
Vacant  hand  and  heart  and  eye. 
Easy  live  and  quiet  die. 

Sound,  Sound  the  Clarion 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 

One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 

Proud  Maisie 

pROUD  Maisie  is  in  the  wood. 

Walking  so  early ; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush. 
Singing  so  rarely. 

"Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 

When  shall  I  marry  me?" 
"When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

"Who   makes   the   bridal  bed. 

Birdie,  say  truly?" 
"The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

"The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady!" 


214    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
From  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel" 

11  REATHES  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
•*^   Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned. 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go  mark  him  well: 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,    shall    forfeit    fair    renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

O  Caledonia  1  stern  and  wild, 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 

Land  of  my  sires  1  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand  I 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  (1772-1834) 
The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 


TT  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

■*•  And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye. 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me? 

"The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  liis  skinny  hand, 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 
"Hold  ofYl  unhand  me.  gray-beard  loon  1" 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropped  he. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  215 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone : 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

"The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

"The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left. 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"Higher  and  higher  every  day. 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon " 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall. 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

"And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

"With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 

And  forward  bends  his  head. 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

"And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold : 


216    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

"And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  cHfts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 
Nor  shapes  of  men,  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

"The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound  I 

"At  length   did  cross   an  Albatross, 
Through  the  fog  it  came ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

"It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

"And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  p\ay, 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo ! 

"In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud. 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moonshine." 

"God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner, 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus ! — 
Why  look'st  thou  so?"  "With  my  crossbow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 


"The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  217 

"And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  I  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

"Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious   Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay. 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

"The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

"Down  dropped  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropped 

down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea  I 

"All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun.  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

"Day   after   day,   day   after   day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

"Water,  water,  everywhere. 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

"The  very  deep  did  rot:  O  Christ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  I 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

"About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 


21S    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

"And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

"And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

"Ah !  well-a-da}' !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


"There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time !  a  weary  time ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye ! 

When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

"At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

"A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged,  and  tacked,  and  veered. 

"With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood. 

And  cried,  A  sail !  a  sail ! 

"With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call : 
Gramercy!  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in. 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

"See!  see!   (I  cried)    she  tacks  no  more 
Hither  to  work  us  weal — 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  219 

"The  western  wave  was  all  aflame, 

The  day  was  wellriigh  done  1 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad,  bright  Sun ; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

"And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace!), 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

"Alas  I    (thought  L  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres? 

"Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through   a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there  two? 
Is   Death  that   Woman's   mate? 

"Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Nightmare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

"The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 
'The  game  is  done !  I've  won !  I've  won  1' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

"The  Sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush  out 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea. 
Off  shot  the  specter-bark. 

"We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 


220    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

"One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

"Four  times  fifty  living  men 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan), 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

"The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  crossbow  1" 

PART   IV 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 

I  fear  thj^  skinnj'  hand ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

"I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinnj^  hand  so  brown." — 
"Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
This  body  dropped  not  down. 

"Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

"The  many  men,  so  beautiful! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on ;  and  so  did  L 

"I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea. 
And  drew  my  eyes  away; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

"I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gushed, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

"I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close. 
And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  221 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky, 
Laj'  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

"The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs. 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they: 
The  look  with  whicli  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

"An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse. 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

"The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere   did   abide ; 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

"Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

"Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

"Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

"O  happy  living  things !  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me. 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

"The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


222    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 


"O  sleep !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

"The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  w^ith  dewr; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

"My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

"I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs: 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

"And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind: 
It  did  not  come  anear ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails. 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

"The  upper  air  burst  into  life ; 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen ; 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about; 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

"And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud. 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  biack  cloud : 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

"The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side ; 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  liglitning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

"The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  223 

"They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

"The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up-blew  ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

"The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope. 
But  he  said  naught  to  me." 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  1" 
"Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest : 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain. 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

"For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

"Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

"Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  skylark  sing; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are. 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

"And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments. 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute ; 
And  nov/  it  is  an  angel's  song. 
That  makes  the  Heavens  be  mute. 

"It  ceased:  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 


324    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

"Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe: 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

"Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  Spirit  slid :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

"The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast. 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir. 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

"Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

"How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"  Ts  it  he?'  quoth  one,  'is  this  the  man? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

"  'The  Spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

"The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew: 

Quoth  he,  'The  man  hath  penance  done. 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 


First  Voice: 
"  'But  tell  me,  tell  me  I  speak  again. 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  225 

Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  is  the  Ocean  doing?' 

Second  Voice : 
"  'Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  Ocean  hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

"'If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

First  Voice : 
"  'But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind?' 

Second  Voice : 
"  'The  air  is  cut  away  before. 
And  closes  from  behind. 

"  'Fly,  brother,  fly !  more  high,  more  high ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go ; 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 

"I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

"All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter : 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

"The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away: 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs. 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

"And  now  this  spell  was  snapped:  once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

"Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 


26    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on, 
And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

"But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

"It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

"Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

"O  dream  of  joy!  is  this  indeed 
The  lighthouse  top  I  see 
Is  this  the  hill?  is  this  the  kirk? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

"We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God  I 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

"The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 

"The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less. 
That  stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  .steeped  in  silcntncss 
The  steady  weathercock. 

"And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colors  came. 

"A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were: 

1  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
O  Christ  1  what  saw  I  there! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  227 

"Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 

And,  by  the  holy  rood ! 

A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

"This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand: 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight  1 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

"This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice ;  but  O,  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

"But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

"The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

"I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 

PART  VII 

"This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  I 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

"He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

"The  skiff -boat  neared :  I  heard  them  talk, 
'Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair. 
That  signal  made  but  now?' 


228    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

"  'Strange,  by  my  faith !'  the  Hermit  said — 

'And  they  answered  not  our  cheer ! 

The  planks  look  warped !  and  see  those  sails. 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere  I 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

"  'Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

"  'Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a- feared.' — 'Push  on,  push  on  !' 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

"The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

"Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

"Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

"Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

"I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

"I  took  the  oars :  the  Pilot's  boy. 
Who  now  doth  crazy  go. 
Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  229 

'Ha!  ha!'  quoth  he,  'full  plain  I  see 
The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

"And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land ! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"  'O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man !' 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow, 
'Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  'I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou?' 

"Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  woful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

"Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns : 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told. 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

"I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  T  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

"What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are: 
And  hark,  the  little  vesper  bell. 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

"O  Wedding-Guest!  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea: 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  Himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

"O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company! — 

"To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray. 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay! 


230    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

"Farewell,  farewell  I  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

"He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God,  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  ej^e  is  bright. 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone :  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned. 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


Kiihla  Khan 

IN  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills. 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  O!  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 

A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething. 

As  if  this  Earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced. 

Amid   whose   swift  half-intermitted   burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  231 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  icel 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played. 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there. 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  I  Beware  1 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


The  Knighfs  Tomb 

T\7"HERE  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn? 
^^    Where  may  the  grave  of  that  good  man  be? — 
By  the  side  of  a  spring,  on  the  breast  of  Helvelljrn, 
Under  the  twigs  of  a  young  birch  tree ! 
The  oak  that  in  summer  was  sweet  to  hear. 
And  rustled  its  leaves  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 
And  whistled  and  roar'd  in  the  winter  alone. 
Is  gone, — and  the  birch  in  its  stead  is  grown. — 
The  Knight's  bones  are  dust, 
And  his  good  sword  rust ; — 
His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust. 


232    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
Work  Without  Hope 

A  LL  Nature  seems  at  work.    Slugs  leave  their  lair— 
■^^   The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And  Winter  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring  I 
And  I  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths  blew, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths !  bloom  for  whom  ye  may, 
For  me  ye  bloom  not  1     Glide,  rich  streams,  away  1 

With  lips  unbrightened,  wreathless  brow,  I  stroll: 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul? 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 

Love 

A  LL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
'^*-  Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man. 

The  statue  of  the  armed  Knight; 

She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope!  my  joy!  my  Genevieve! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air; 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  233 

An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  fitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined ;  and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love. 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  fitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 

He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 

And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 

The  Lady  of  the  Land ; — 
And  how  she  wept  and  claspedhis  knees; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate  _ 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ;— 
And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 

A  dying  man  he  lay; — 


234    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty. 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 

Disturbed  her  soul  with  pityl 
All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 

The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long  I 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin-shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepped — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


Front  "Christahel" 

A  LAS !  they  had  been   friends  in  youth ; 
■^^   But    whispering    tongues    can    poison    truth ; 
And  constancy  lives   in   realms  above ; 
And  life  is  thorny;  and  youth  is  vain: 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love. 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  835 

Each  spake  words  of  hiph  disdain 

And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother: 

They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  ae:ain  I 

But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  painin,? — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining:, 

Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder ; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder. 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  we'en, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 


Epitaph  on  Himself 

CTOP,  Christian  passerby!     Stop,  child  of  God  I 

And  read  with  gentle  breast.     Beneath  this  sod 
A  poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he — 
Oh  I  lift  one  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C.  1 
That  he,  who  many  a  year,  with  toil  of  breath, 
Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death  I 
Mercy  for  praise — to  be  forgiven  for  fame, 
He  asked  and  hoped  through  Christ — do  thou  the  same. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  (1774-1843) 
'My  Days  Among  the  Dead  Are  Passed" 

Tyf'Y  days  among  the  Dead  are  passed. 

Around  me  I  behold. 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old : 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal. 

And  seek  relief  in  woe; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe. 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

\ly  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears : 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 


236    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  Futurity; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR   (1775-1864) 
Rose  Aylnier 

A  H,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race ! 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  I 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Dirce 

CTAND  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set, 
With  Dirce  in  one  laoat  conveyed ! 
Or  Charon,  seeing,  may  forget 
That  he  is  old  and  she  a  shade. 


To  Robert  Browning 

TPHERE  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear 

Beside  the  singer ;  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  the'  tlie  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 
Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 
Therefore  on  him  no  speech !  and  brief  for  thee, 
Browning!     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 
No  man  hath  walkt  along  our  roads  with  step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 
Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing:  the  breeze 
Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 
Beyond   Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 
The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


CHARLES  LAMB  237 

How  Many  Voices  Gaily  Sing 

TTOW  many  voices  f!:aily  sing, 

■'■■'•   "O  happy  morn,  O  happy  sprinpr 

Of  life!"     Meanwhile   there  comes   o'er  me 

A  softer  voice  from  Memory, 

And  says,  "If  loves  and  hopes  have  flov^^n 

With  years,   think,   too,   what  griefs   are   gone  I" 


Why,  JVhy  Repine? 

"^l^HY,   why  repine,   my  pensive   friend. 

At  pleasures  slipt  away? 
Some  the  stern  Fates  will  never  lend, 
And  all  refuse  to  stay. 

I  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

The  dew  upon  the  grass, 
I  see  them  and  I  ask  not  why 

They  glimmer  or  they  pass. 

With  folded  arms  I  linger  not 
To  call  them  back;  'twere  vain; 

In  this,  or  in  some  other  spot, 
I  know  they'll  shine  again. 


/  Strove  with  None 

T  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife ; 

Nature  T  loved,  and,  next  to  nature,  art; 
I  warm'd  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


CHARLES   LAMB    (177S-1834) 
The  Old  Familiar  Faces 

T  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions. 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  schooldays,- 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

T  h^vp  been  laughing,  T  have  been  carousing. 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  mv  bosom  cronies, — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


238    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women : 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her, — 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like,  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood. 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bofiom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed, — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


Hester 

"lA^HEN  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 

' '^    Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 

With  vain  endeavor. 
A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon   the   wormy  bed, 

And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A  rising  step,  did  indicate 

Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 

That  flushed  her  spirit: 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call;  if  'twas  not  pride. 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule. 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  trained  in  Nature's  school ; 

Nature  had  blessed  her. 
A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind  ; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, — 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  239 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, — 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, — 

A  sweet  forewarning? 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL  (1777-1844) 

"Ye  Mariners  of  England" 

Y^E  Mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas ! 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe ; 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  I 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow! 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks. 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves. 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below. 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow! 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 


240    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Then,  then,  yc  ocean-warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To   the    fame  of  your  name, 

Wiicn  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  I 
When  the  fiery  light  is  heard  no  more. 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


THOMAS  MOORE  (1779-1852) 
"The  Young  May  Moon" 

*  I  'HE  young  Maj'  moon  is  beaming,  love, 
■*■    The   glow-worm's   lamp   is   gleaming,   love ; 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove. 
When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love! 

Then  awake !— till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
*Tis  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear ; 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  days 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear  I 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love. 

But  the  Sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love, 

And  I,  whose  star 

More  glorious  far 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 

Then  awake! — till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear. 
The  Sage's  glass  we'll  shun,  my  dear, 

Or  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear ! 


Ta 


ra 


'X'HE  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 
"*•        The  soul  of  music  shed. 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days. 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er. 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells ; 
The   chord   alone   that   breaks   at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 


THOMAS  MOORE  241 

Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, — 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

At  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night 

A  T  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
■^  To   the   lone  vale   we   loved,   when   life   shone   warm    in 
thine  eye ; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of  air 
To  revisit  past  scenes   of   delight,  thou   wilt  come  to  me 
there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd  even  in  the  sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  it  once  was  rapture  to  hear, 
When  our  voices  commingling  breathed  like  one  on  the  ear ; 
And  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think,  O  my  love !  'tis  thy  voice   from  the   Kingdom  of 
of  Souls 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

"  'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer^* 

''T'lS  the  last  rose  of  summer. 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are   faded   and   gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred. 

No  rose-bud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one! 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,    sleep   thou    with    them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie    scentless    and   dead. 

So  soon  may  /  follow. 

When   friendships  decay, 
And   from  Love's   shining  circle 

The  gems   drop   away. 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered. 

And   fond  ones   are   flown, 
O  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone? 


242    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 
EDWARD  THURLOW   (LORD  THURLOW) 

(1781-1829) 

May 

"VfAYI  queen  of  blossoms, 
"*•'•*■       And  fulfilling  flowers, 
With  what  pretty  music 

Shall  we  charm  the  hours? 
Wilt  thou  have  pipe  and  reed, 
Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 
Or  to  the  lute  give  heed 

In  the  green  bowers? 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us. 

Or  pipe  or  wire, 
Thou  hast  the  golden  bee 

Ripen'd  with  fire ; 
And  many  thousand  more 
Songsters,  that  thee  adore 
Filling  earth's  grassy  floor 

With  new  desire. 

Thou  hast  thy  might  herds. 

Tame  and  free-livers ; 
Doubt  not,  thy  music  too 

In  the  deep  rivers ; 
And  the  whole  plumy  flight 
Warbling  the  day  and  night — 
Up  at  the  gates  of  light, 

See,  the  lark  quivers  1 


LEIGH  HUNT  (1784-1859) 
Jenny  Kiss'd  Me 

T  ENNY  kiss'd  me  when  we  met, 
^         Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in  ; 
Time,  you  thief !  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I'm  wearj%  say  I'm  sad ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  miss'd  me ; 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 

Jenny  kiss'd  me  I 


THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK  243 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 

/^  REEN  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  prass, 

^^        Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 

Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass ; 
And  you.  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ; 
Oh,  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong. 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 
Both  have  your  sunshine ;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts ;  and  both  were  sent  on  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 

Indoors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirfh. 

Ahoti  Ben  Adhem, 

A  BOU  Ben  Adhem — may  his  tribe  increase  I — 
"^^  Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom. 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said : 
"What  writest  thou?"    The  vision  raised  its  head. 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord. 
Answered :    "The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.    "Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.    Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But  cheerily  still ;  and  said :     "I  pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 
The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light. 
And  shewed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 
And  lo  1  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 

THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK  (1785-1866) 
The  JVar-Song  of  Dinas  Vawr 

(From  "The  Misfortunes  of  Elphin,"  abridged) 

nPHE  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter, 
But  the  valley  sheep  are  fatter; 
We  therefore  deemed  it  meeter 


244    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

To  carry  off  the  latter. 

We  made  an  expedition ; 

We  met  an  host  and  quelled  it ; 

We  forced  a  strong  position, 

And  killed  the  men  who  held  it.  .  .  . 

{From  the  same) 

T^OT  drunk  is  he,  who  from  the  floor 
•^^    Can  rise  alone,  and  still  drink  more: 
But  drunk  is  he  who  prostrate  lies. 
Without  the  power  to  drink  or  rise. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON— LORD  BYRON 

(1788- I 824) 

To  the  Ocean 
{From  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage") 

nPHERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 

There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar ; 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean,  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin,  his  control  ^ 
Stops  with  the  shore ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknclled,  uncoflined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  scnd'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth : — there  let  him  lay. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON— LORD  BYRON  245 

The  armaments  which  thnnderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee  and  arbiter  of  war, — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee ; — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  : — not  so  thou ; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play, 
Times  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow ; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed, — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime, — 
The  image  of  Eternity, — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean ;  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward.     From  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers, — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear; 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane, — as  I  do  here. 


The  Isles  of  Greece 


T 


'HE  isles  of  Greece!  the  isles  of  Greece! 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung  I 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 


246    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse: 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations  ; — all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  morel 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah !  no ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head. 
But  one,  arise, — we  come,  we  come!" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON— LORD  BYRON  247 

In  vain — in  vain  :  strike  other  chords ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  I 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  I 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet; 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine : 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 
Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend ; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 
O  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore. 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells ; 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwelTs: 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


248    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  1 


Sonnet  on  Chillon 


PTERNAL  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 

Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty,  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom — 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdorn. 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar ;  for  'twas  trod. 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard ! — May  none  those  marks  efface ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


"She  Walks  in  Beauty" 

OHE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 

'^       Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 
Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face : 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


GEORGE    GORDON    BYRON— LORD    BYRON    249 
So,  We'll  Go  No  More  a  Roving 

CO,  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  nii^ht, 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 
And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast. 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 

And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 
Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

By  the  light  of  the  moon. 

My  Boat  Is  on  the  Shore 

"|y4[Y  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea : 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee ! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  that  love  me, 

And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate ; 
And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 

Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  shall  yet  bear  me  on ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink. 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  Le  : — "Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  !" 

Byron's  Farewell 

♦npiS  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 
■^        Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move : 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love! 


250    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf ; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone  1 


The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 


But  'tis  not  thus — and  'tis  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 


The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field. 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see  I 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield. 
Was  not  more  free. 


Awake!  (not  Greece — she  is  awake!) 

Awake  my  spirit !    Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake. 
And  then  strike  home ! 


Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 

Unworthy  manhood  ! — Unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth,  why  live? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 


Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest. 


CHARLES  WOLFE  251 

CHARLES  WOLFE  (1791-1823) 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  After  Coriinna 

(January  16,  1809) 

"^"OT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
^        As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his   farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning. 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lanthorn  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers   we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


252    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY    (1792-1822) 
To  a  Skylark 

JJAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 
Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pak  purple  even 

Melts  around   thy  flight; 
Like   a  star   of   heaven 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thj'  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  wc  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like   a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 
Singing    hymns    unbidden 
Till  the   world   is   wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  253 

Like   a  high-born   maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul   in    secret   hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew. 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the 
view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves : 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal. 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What   objects   are   the    fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain?    • 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor   cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 


254    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of   delightful   sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such   harmonious   madness 

From  my  lips   would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


Ode  to  the  West  Wind 


f\  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
^"^    Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  !     O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY         255 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill; 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  O  hear ! 


n 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion. 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean. 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning !  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height. 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.    Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre. 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst:  O  hear! 

Ill 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams. 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them !    Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear. 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  O  hear! 


256    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable !  if  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boj'hood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision — I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
O  1  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!    I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee — tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own? 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone. 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !    Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe. 

Like  withered  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!     O  Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 


From  "Ado7iais'* 

■pEACK,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 

He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 
'Tis  we,  wlio,  lost  in  stormy  visions  keep, 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 
And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  257 

Invulnerable  nothings.     We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  sv^^arm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn.  .  .  . 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone. 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely:  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there, 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  the  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear, 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb, 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.    When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair. 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 

Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 

Far  in  the  Unapparent.    Chatterton 


258    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Rose  pale, — his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot. 
Arose;   and   Lucan,  by  his  death  approved; 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved.  .  .  . 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is  set. 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  tliou  !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.    From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  whj^  fear  we  to  become? 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines.  Earth's  shadows  fly ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass. 
Stains  the  v/hite  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled ! — Rome's  azure  sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  Heart? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before ;  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart  I 
A  light  is  passed  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man.  and  woman  ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls !  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  cartli  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  whicli  all  thirst,  now  beams  on  me. 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  2" 

Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar ; 
Whilst,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star. 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


To  Night 

CWIFTLY  walk  o'er  the  western  wave, 
^  Spirit  of  Night ! 

Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear. 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear. 
Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form   in   a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 

Come,    long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed   for  thee ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"Would'st  thou  me?" 
Thy  sweet  child   Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
"Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Would'st  thou  me?" — And  I  replied, 

"No,  not  thee." 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon  I 


2G0    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
Lines  to  an  Indian  Air 

¥  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

■*•   In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright, 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 

Has  led  me — who  knows  how? 

To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet  1 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream; 
The  champak  odonrs  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart. 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 
O  beloved  as  thou  art! 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

1  die,  1  faint,  I  f ail  1 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; 
Oh !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 
Where  it  must  break  at  last. 


To 


/^NE  word  is  too  often  profaned 
^-^       For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother. 
And  Pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love; 

But  wilt  thou   accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not: 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  261 

Music,  When  Soft  Voices  Die 

Tl/TUSIC,  when  soft  voices  die. 

Vibrates  in  the  memory; 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


Hellas 

'T'HE  world's  great  age  begins  anew. 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star ; 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again. 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies; 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

O  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be — 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free. 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live. 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 


262    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose. 
Than  manj'  unsubdued : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease!  must  hate  and  death  return? 

Cease!  must  men  kill  and  die? 
Cease !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy! 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past — 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last  I 


From  "Prometheus  Unbound" 

'T'O  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite; 

To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night; 

To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent; 
To  love,  and  bear ;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates ; 

Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent ; 
This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory. 


JOHN  KEATS  (1795-1821) 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

ly^'UCH  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold. 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken : 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


JOHN  KEATS  263 

*'fVhen  I  Have  Fears" 

"ITl^HEN  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
^^    Before  my  pen  has  p:Ieaned  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high-piled  books  in  charact'ry 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripened  grain ; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starred  face. 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their   shadows,    with   the   magic   hand   of   chance; 
And  when  I   feel,   fair  creature  of  an  hour ! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more. 
Never  have  relish  in  the  fairy  power 
Of  unreflecting  love ! — then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and   Fame  to  nothingness   do   sink. 


Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Maia 

■jyf  OTHER  of  Hermes  !  and  still  youthful  Maia  I 

•^'■'-  May  I  sing  to  thee 

As  thou  wast  hymned  on  the  shores  of  Baia? 

Or  may  I  woo  thee 
In  earlier  Sicilian?  or  thy  smiles 
Seek  as  they  once  were  sought,  in  Grecian  isles, 
By  bards   who  died   content  on  pleasant  sward, 

Leaving  great  verse  unto  a  little  clan? 
O  give  me  their  old  vigour !  and  unheard 
Save  of  the  quiet  primrose,  and  the  span 

Of  heaven,  and  few  ears. 
Rounded  by  thee,  my  song  shall  die  away 

Content  as  theirs. 
Rich  in  the  simple  worship  of  a  day. 


'The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes" 

OT.  AGNES'  Eve— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death,^ 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 


264    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meager,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  : 
The  sculptured  dead  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails.  ,  .  . 

A  casement  high  and   triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and 
kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  pressed. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  dressed. 
Save   wings,   for  heaven  : — Porphyro  grew   faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her   fragment  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  seaweed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,   until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray; 
Blinded  alike   from  sunshine  and   from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 


JOHN  KEATS  265 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless 
And  breathed  himself:  then   from  the  closet  crept 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness. 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stept. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo — how  fast  she 
slept. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and   far-heard  clarionet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone: — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth  and  lavendered. 
While  he  forth  from  the  closet  brouglit  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna   and   dates,   in   argosy  transferred 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one. 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver:  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light — 
"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains : — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 


266    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called,  "La  belle  dame  sans  merci" : 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 

nPHOU  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?     What  maidens  loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes   and   timbrels?     What   wild   ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies   are   sweet,  but   those   unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear.  but,  more  endured, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though   winning  near   the   goal — yet,   do   not  grieve ; 
She   cannot   fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love  I 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the   skies, 

And  all  her  silken   flanks   with   garlands   dressed? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or   mountain-built   with   peaceful  citadel, 


JOHN  KEATS  267 

Is  emptied  of  its   folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets   for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !  fair  attitude !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity.     Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is   all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

On  Melancholy 

"^"O,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

^    Wolf's-bane,   tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  niglitshade,   ruby  grape  of  Proserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries. 

Nor  let  the  beetle  nor  the  death-moth  be 

Your   mournful    Psyche,   nor   the    downy   owl 
A  partner   in   your   sorrow's   mysteries ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 

And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That   fosters   the   droop-headed   flowers   all. 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose. 

Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 

Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave. 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips: 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 
Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine. 
Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Toy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine: 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


268    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 

r\  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
^"^        Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 
So  haggard   and   so   woe-begone? 

The   squirrel's   granary  is    full. 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever-dew. 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful — a  fairy's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light. 
And  her  e3'es  were  wild. 

I  made  a  garlaild  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love. 
And  made   sweet  moan. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  fairy's  song. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild  and  manna-dew. 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
"I  love  thee  true." 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept  and  sighed  full  sore; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep. 

And  there  I  dreamed — Ah !   woe  betide  I 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


JOHN  KEATS  269 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

They  cried — "La  belle  dame  sans  merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!" 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 

With  horrid   warning  gaped   wide, 
And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering. 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered   from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds   sing. 


Ode  to  Psyche 

f\  Goddess !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 
^^       By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear. 
And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung 

Even  into  thine  own  soft-conched  ear: 
Surely  I  dreamed  to-day,  or  did  I  see 

The  winged   Psyche  with   awakened  eyes? 
I  wandered  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly. 

And,  on  a  sudden,   fainting  with   surprise. 
Saw  two   fair  creatures,,  couched  side  by  side 

In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whispering  roof 

Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where  there  ran 
A  brooklet,  scarce   espied : 
'Mid  hushed,  cool-rooted  flowers   fragrant-eyed, 

Blue,  silver-white,  and  hudded  Tyrian, 
They   lay   calm-breathing   on    the   bedded    grass ; 

Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too ; 

Their  lips  touched  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber, 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 

At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love: 
The  winged  boy  I  knew ; 

But  who  wast  thou,  O  happy,  happy  dove? 
His  Psyche  true  1 

O  latest-born  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy! 
Fairer  than  Phoebe's  sapphire-regioned  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none, 
Nor  altar  heaped  with  flowers ; 


270    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Nor  Virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
No  voice,  no  hite,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming ; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouthed  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest !  though  too  late  for  antique  vows, 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  Ijtc, 

When  holy  were  the  haunted   forest  boughs, 

Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire ; 
Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 

Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  ej^es  inspired. 
So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours ! 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming: 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-mouthed  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind. 
Where  branched  thoughts,  new-grown  with  pleasant  pain, 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind : 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-clustered  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-Iain  Dryads  shall  be  lulled  to  sleep; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreathed  trellis  of  a  working  brain, 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name. 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign. 

Who,  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same; 

And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 
That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 

A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night, 
To  let  the  warm  Love  in ! 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 

"jy^'Y  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
^         My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  T  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,   and   Lethe-wards   had  sunk: 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 


JOHN  KEATS  271 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in   full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and   Provencal   song,  and   sunburnt  mirth  I 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim. 
And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret, 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few.   sad.  last  gray  hairs. 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  specter-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where   Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus   and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

T  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith   the   seasonable   month   endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 


272    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
NoviT  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  I 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  I 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  I 
Adieu !   the   fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream. 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waK'ing  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music: — Do  I  wake  or  sleep? 


To  Autumn 

CEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  f ruitfulness  f 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel-shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease. 
For  Summer  has  o'erbrimmed  their  clammy  cells. 


GEORGE  DARLEY  273 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 

Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 

Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers ; 

And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?     Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too. 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 

Hedge-crickets  sing,  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  redbreast  whistles   from  a  garden-croft. 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

Last  Sonnet 

■Q RIGHT  Star!  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art— 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart. 
Like  Nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priest-like  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  eartii's  human  shores. 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 
No — yet  still   steadfast,   still  unchangeable. 
Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest. 

Still,   still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath. 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

GEORGE  DARLEY  (1795-1846) 
From  "Sylvia" 

WHO  wants  a  gown 
^  Of  purple  fold, 
Embroidered  down 
The  seams  with  gold? 

See  here ! — a  Tulip  richly  laced 
To  please  a  royal  fairy's  taste  1 


274    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Who  wants  a  cap 

Of  crimson  grand? 
By  great  good  hap 
I've  one  on  hand : 
Look,  sir  I — a  Cock's-comb,  flowering  red, 
'Tis  just  the  thing,  sir,  for  your  head! 

"Who  wants  a  frock 

Of  vestal  hue? 
Or  snowy  smock? — 
Fair  maid,  do  you? 

O  me  ! — a  Ladysmock  so  white  I 
Your  bosom's  self  is  not  more  bright  I 

Who  wants  to  sport 

A  slender  limb? 
I've  every  sort 
Of  hose  for  him: 

Both  scarlet,  striped,  and  yellow  ones : 
This  Woodbine  makes  such  pantaloons ! 

Who  wants — (hush!  hush!) 

A  box  of  paint? 
'Twill  give  a  blush, 
Yet  leave  no  taint : 

This  Rose  with  natural  rouge  is  fill'd, 
From  its  own  dewy  leaves  distill'd. 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE   (1796-1849) 


Song 


CHE  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me ; 
Oh !  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye : 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


THOMAS  HOOD  275 

THOMAS  HOOD  (1799-1845) 
The  Song  of  the  Shirt 

■^17"ITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
' '^        With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plving  her  needle  and  thread, — 
Stitch— stitch— stitch !_ 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt  1" 

"Work — work — work 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And   work — work — work 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof  I 
It's  oh !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where   woman  has   never   a   soul  to   save, 

If   this   is   Christian   work! 

"Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 
Work — work — work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  I 

"O  men  with  sisters  dear! 

O  men  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  1 
Stitch — stitch — stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt! 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  death,— 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
O  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear. 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap! 

"Work — work — worlj  I 
My  labour  never  flags; 


276    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  1 

"Work — work — work 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  t 
Work — work — work 

As  prisoners  work  fcr  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"Work — work — work 

In  the  dull  December  light! 
And  work — work — work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  I 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling. 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs. 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

"Oh  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet,— 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet  I 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel. 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meall 

"Oh  but  for  one  short  hour, — 

A  respite,  however  brief  I 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time   for  grief ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  I" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread, — 
Stitch— stitch— stitch ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  I — 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 


THOMAS  HOOD  277 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 

/^NE  more  Unfortunate, 
^'^       Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  I 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly. 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like   cerements: 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,   not   loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful; 
Past  all  dishonour. 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers. 

One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 

Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Where  was  her  home? 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 


278    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas !   for  the  rarity 
Of   Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun ! 
O,  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,   motherly 

Feelings   had   changed ; 

Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with   amazement. 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March  _ 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 

But  not  the  dark  arch 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 

Mad  from  life's  history, 

Glad  to  death's  mystery. 
Swift  to  be  hurled — 

Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world  1 

In  she  plunged  boldly — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The   rough   river   ran— 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it, — think  of  it, 

Dissolute   Man ! 
Lave  in  it, — drink  of  it. 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slendely. 

Young,  and  so  fair  I 


THOMAS  HOOD  279 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly. 
Smooth  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As   when   with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing, 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely. 
Cold  inhumanity. 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly 
As  if  praying  dumbly. 

Over  her  breast  1 

Owning  her  weakness. 

Her  evil  behaviour. 
And  leaving,   with   meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  I 


Fair  Ines 

f\  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

^^       She's  gone  into  the  West, 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest : 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

O  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night. 
For  fear  the  Moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivaled  bright; 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write  1 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 
That  gallant  cavalier, 


280    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

Who  rode  so  gaily  by  thy  side, 

And  whispered  thee  so  near ! 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before; 
And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore : 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, — 

If  it  had  been  no  more  1 

Alas,  alas !  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 
With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng; 
But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines  1 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck. 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea. 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore ! 
The  smile  that  blessed  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more ! 

Silence 

'T'HERE  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound. 

There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be. 
In  the  cold  grave, — under  the  deep,  deep  sea. 
Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found. 
Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound ; 
No  voice  is  hush'd — no  life  treads  silently. 
But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free. 
That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground : 
But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 
Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been. 
Though  the  dun  fox  a  wild  hyaena  calls. 
And    owls    that    flit    continually   between. 
Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan — 
There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  281 

THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY.    LORD 
MACAULAY   (1800-1859) 

From  "Horatius" 

'j^HEN  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate : 
"To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 

"And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, — 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame? 

"Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  maj'; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me. 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three : 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep   the   bridge   with   me?" 

Then   out  spake   Spurius   Lartius, — 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he : 
"Lo,   I  will  stand  at  thy  rieht  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge   with   thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius, — 

Of  Titan  blood  was  he : 
"I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

"Horatius,"   quoth   the    Consul, 

"As  thou  sayest  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


282    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Then  none  was  for  a  party; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great: 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold: 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


SIR  HENRY  TAYLOR   (1800-1886) 
Elena's  Song 

OUOTH  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  heart  of  neither  wife  nor  maid- 
Lead  we  not  here  a  jolly  life 
Betwixt  'the  shine  and  shade  ? 

Quoth  heart  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  tongue  of  neither  wife  nor  maid — 

Thou  wagg'st,  but  I  am  worn  with  strife, 
And  feel  like  flowers  that  fade. 


WILLIAM  BARNES  (1801-1886) 
The  Woodlands 

C\  spread  agean  your  leaves  an'  flow'rs 

^'^        Lwonesome  woodlands  !  zunny  woodlands  ! 

Here  underneath  the  dewy  show'rs 

0  warm-air'd   spring-time  zunny  woodlands ! 
As   when,  in  drong  or  open  ground, 

Wi'  happy  bwoyish  heart  I  vound 

The  twitt'ren  birds  a  builden  round 

Your  high-bough'd  hedges,  zunny  woodlands  I 

You  gie'd  me  life,  you  gie'd  me  jay, 

Lwonesome   woodlands  !   zunny   woodlands  I 
You  gie'd  me  health,  as  in  my  play 

1  rambled   through   ye,  zunny   woodlands ! 
You  gie'd  me  freedom,  vor  to  rove 

In  airy  mead  or  sheady  grove 
You  gie'd  me  smilen  Fanny's  love. 

The  best  ov  all  o't,  zunny  woodlands ! 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  283 

My  vu'st  shrill   skylark  whiver'd   high, 

Lwonesome    woodlands  !    zunny   woodlands  ! 

To  zing  below  your  deep-blue  sky 

An'  white  spring-clouds,  O  zunny  woodlands ! 

An'  boughs  o'  trees  that  woonce  stood  here, 

Wer  glossy  green  the  happy-year 

That  gie'd  me  woone  I  lov'd  so  dear, 
An'  now  ha  lost,  O  zunny  woodlands  1 

0  let  me  rove  agean  unspied, 
Lwonesome    woodlands  !    zunny   woodlands  ! 

Along  your  green-bough'd  hedges'  zide, 

As  then  I  rambled,  zunny  woodlands  I 
An'  where  the  missen  trees  woonce  stood, 
Or  tongues  woonce  rung  among  the  wood, 
My  memory  shall  meake  em  good, 

Though  you've  a-lost  em,  zunny  woodlands  I 

JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN   (1801-1890) 
The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud 

T   EAD,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
The  night  is   dark,   and   I   am   far   from  home — 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene, — one  step  enough  for  me. 

1  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  loved  to  choose  and   see  my  path ;  but  now 

Lead   Thou  me   on  1 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears. 
Pride  ruled  my  will :  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blessed  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on. 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone ; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED  (1802-1839) 
Fairy  Song 

TITE  has  conn'd  the  lesson  now; 

He  has  read  the  book  of  pain: 
There  are  furrows  on  his  brow; 
I  must  make  it  smooth  again. 


284    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Lol  I  knock  the  spurs  away; 

Lo  1  I  loosen  belt  and  brand : 
Hark  1  I  hear  the  courser  neigh 

For  his  stall  in  Fairy-Land. 

Bring  the  cap,  and  bring  the  vest; 

Buckle  on  his   sandal  shoon ; 
Fetch  his  memory  from  the  chest 

In  the  treasury  of  the  moon. 

I  have  taught  him  to  be  wise 
For  a  little  maiden's  sake; — 

Lo !  he  opens  his  glad  eyes, 
Softly,  slowly:  Minstrel,  wake! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  (1803-1849) 

Dark  Rosaleen 

C\  my  dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep ! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green. 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope 

Upon  the  ocean  green. 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope. 

My  dark  Rosaleen  I 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  j'on  health,  and  help,  and  hope. 

My  dark  Rosaleen  I 

Over  hills   and   through   dales 

Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake; 
All   yesterday  I   sailed   the  sails 

On   river   and   on   lake. 
The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own   Rosaleen ! 
Oh  !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  I 

All  day  long,  in  unrest. 

To  and  fro  do  I  move. 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  I 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  285 

The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Rosalecn ! 

My  own  Rosalecn ! 
To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Rosalecn ! 


Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon. 
To  see  j'our  bright  face  clouded  so. 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen ; 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone 

Aly  dark  Rosalecn ! 

My  own  Rosalecn ! 
'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone. 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal: 
Your  holy,  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en. 
You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers. 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  I 
You'll  think  of  me  through  daylight's  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers. 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills. 
Oh.  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer. 

To  heal  your  many  ills ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  I 

My  own  Rosaleen! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew. 

My  dark  Rosaleen  1 


286    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Oh !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

A'ly  dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  1 
The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  1 


THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES   (1803-1845) 
Dream-Pedlary 

TF  there  were  dreams  to  sell. 

What  would  you  buy? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell ; 

Some  a  light  sigh. 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell. 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell. 
What  would  you  buy? 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING    (1806-1861) 
From  "Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese'* 


T  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years. 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightwayl  was  'ware. 
So  ^Veeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove, — 
"Guess  now  who  holds  thee?"— "Death,"  I  said.     But,  there, 
The  silver  answer  rang, — "Not  Death,  but  Love." 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  287 


Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart  I 

Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 

Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 

On  one  another,  as  they  strike  athwart 

Their  wings  in  passing.    Thou,  bethink  thee,  art 

A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries, 

With  gages  from  a  hundred  brighter  eyes 

Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  play  thy  part 

Of  chief  musician.     What  hast  thou  to  do 

With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at  me, 

A  poor,  tired,  wandering  singer,  singing  through 

The  dark,  and  leaning  up  a  cypress  tree? 

The  chrism  is  on  thine  head, — on  mine,  the  dew, — 

And  Death  must  dig  the  level  where  these  agree. 

VI 

Go  from  me.    Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore,—^ 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine. 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

XIV 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 

Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 

"I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — her  way 

Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of  thought 

That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day" — 

For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 

Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love,  so  wrought, 

May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me   for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, — 

A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  tliereby! 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 

Thou  may'st  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 


288    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

XVIII 

I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  avi^ay 

To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 

Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 

I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length  and  say 

"Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  went  yesterday; 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee, 

Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 

As  girls  do,  any  more :  it  only  may 

Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark  of  tears, 

Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs  aside 

Through  sorrow's  trick.     I  thought  the  funeral-shears 

Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justified, — 

Take  it  thou, — finding  pure,  from  all  those  years, 

The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 


How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life! — and.  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

A  Denial 

"VSTE  have  met  late — it  is  too  late  to  meet, 

^^         O  friend,  not  more  than  friend! 
Death's  forecome  shroud  is  tangled  round  my  feet. 
And  if  I  step  or  stir,  I  touch  the  end. 

In  this  last  jeopardy 
Can  I  approach  thee, — I,  who  cannot  move? 
How  shall  I  answer  thy  request  for  love? 

Look  in  my  face  and  see. 

"I  might  have  loved  thee  in  some  former  days. 

Oh,  then,  my  spirits  had  leapt 
As  now  they  sink,  at  hearing  thy  love-praise  f 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  289 

Before  these  faded  cheeks  were  overwept, 

Had  this  been  asked  of  me, 
To  love  thee  with  my  whole  strong  heart  and  head, — 
I  should  have  said  still  .  .  .  Yes,  but  smiled  and  said, 

'Look  in  my  face  and  see !' 

"But  now  .  .  .  God  sees  me,  God,  who  took  my  heart 

And  drowned  it  in  life's  surge. 
In  all  your  wide  warm  earth  I  have  no  part — 
A  light  song  overcomes  me  like  a  dirge. 

Could  love's  great  harmony 
The  saints  keep  step  to  when  their  bonds  are  loose, 
Not  weigh  me  down?  am  /  a  wife  to  choose? 

Look  in  my  face  and  see — 

"While  I  behold,  as  plain  as  one  who  dreams. 

Some  woman  of  full  worth. 
Whose  voice,  as  cadenced  as  a  silver  stream's. 
Shall  prove  the  fountain-soul  which  sends  it  forth. 

One  younger,  more  thought-free 
And   fair  and  gay,  than  I,  thou  must  forget, 
With  brighter  eyes  than  these  .  .  .  which  are  not  wet — 

Look  in  my  face  and  see ! 

"So  farevi^en  thou,  whom  I  have  known  too  late 

To  let  thee  come  so  near. 
Be  counted  happy  while  men  call  thee  great, 
And  one  beloved  woman  feels  thee  dear ! — 

Not  I ! — that  cannot  be, 
I  am  lost,  I  am  changed, — I  must  go  farther  where 
The  change  shall  take  me  worse,  and  no  one  dare 

Look  in  my  face  and  see." 

/I  Musical  Instrmnent 

■yX7"HAT  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
'  '         Dovi^n  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban. 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat. 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 

From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river: 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 

Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 


290    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river ; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can, 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 

(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river!) 
Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man. 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring. 
And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 

In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river,) 
"The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan  1 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die. 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man : 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain, — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 


EDWARD   FITZGERALD    (1809-1883) 

From   "The  Riibdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam' 

/^OME,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
^^   Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

Whether  at  Naishapur  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run. 

The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop, 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  291 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  I 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  this  World ;  and  some 
Sigh   for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come ; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum! 

The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts  upon 
Turns   Ashes — or  it  prospers  ;   and   anon, 

Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face, 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two — was  gone. 

Think,  in  this  battered  caravanserai 

WHiose  portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep : 

And  Bahram.  that  great  Hunter — the  Wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break  his  Sleep. 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled ; 

That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropped  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  Head. 

And  this  reviving  Herb  whose  tender  Green 
Fledges  the  River-Lip  on  which  we  lean — 

Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly!  for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  Lip  it  springs  unseen! 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
To-DAY  of  past  Regret  and   future  Fears : 

To-MORROw ! — Why,   To-morrow   I   may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Seven  thousand  Years. 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath  pressed, 

Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two  before. 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

And  we  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new  bloom. 

Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  Couch  of  Earth 
Descend — ourselves  to  make  a  Couch — for  whom? 


292    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend ; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust,  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — sans  End  I 

I  sent  my  Soul  through  the  Invisible 
Some  letter  of  that  After-life  to  spell: 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  returned  to  me, 
And  answered,  "I  Myself  am  Heaven  and  Hell." 

Heaven  but  the  Vision  of  fulfilled  Desire, 
And  Hell  the  Shadow  from  a  Soul  on  fire 

Cast  on  the  Darkness  into  which  Ourselves 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire. 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 

Of   magic    Shadow-shapes   that   come  and   go 

Round  with  the  Sun-illumined  Lantern  held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show ; 

But  helpless  Pieces  of  the  Game  He  plays 
Upon  this  Checker-board  of  Nights  and  Days ; 

Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks,  and  slays. 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays. 

The  Ball  no  question  makes  of  Ayes  and  Noes, 
But  Here  or  There,  as  strikes  the  Player,  goes ; 
And  He  that  tossed  you  down  into  the  Field, 
He  knows  about  it  all — He  knows — HE  knows ! 

The  Moving  Finger  writes ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on  :  nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line 
Nor  all  j'our  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it 

And  that  inverted  Bowl  they  call  the  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  cooped  we  live  and  die. 

Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help — for  It 
As  impotently  moves  as  you  or  I.  .  .  . 

"Whatl  out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  Something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  Pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  Everlasting  Penalties,  if  broke! 

What!  from  his  helpless  Creature  be  repaid 
Pure  Gold  for  what  he  lent  him  dross-allayed — 

Sue  for  a  Debt  we  never  did  contract. 
And  cannot  answer — Oh  the  sorry  trade ! 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  293 

Oh  Thou,  who  didst  with  pitfall  and  with  gin 
Beset  the  Road  I  was  to  wander  in, 

Thou  wilt  not  with   Predestined  Evil  round 
Enmesh,  and  then  impute  my  Fall  to  Sin  I 

Oh  Thou,  who  Man  of  Baser  Earth  Hidst  make, 
And  even  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake : 

For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is  blackened — Man's   forgiveness  give — and  take  I 

Ah,  with  the  Grape  my  fading  Life  provide. 
And  wash  the  Body  whence  the  Life  has  died, 

And  lay  me,  shrouded  in  the  living  Leaf, 
By  some  not  unfrequented  Garden-side. 

That  even  my  buried  Ashes  such  a  snare 
Of  Vintage  shall  fling  up  into  the  Air 

As  not  a  True-believer  passing  by 
But  shall  be  overtaken  unaware. 

Indeed  the  Idols  I  have  loved  so  long 

Have  done  my  credit  in  the  World  much  wrong: 

Have  drowned  my  Glory  in  a  shallow  Cup, 
And  sold  my  reputation  for  a  Song. 

Indeed,  indeed.  Repentance  oft  before 
I  swore — but  was  I  sober  when  I  swore? 

And  then,  and  then  came  Spring,  and  Rose-in-hand 
My  thread-bare  Penitence  apieces  tore. 

And  much  as  Wine  has  played  the  Infidel, 
And  robbed  me  of  my  Robe  of  Honour — Well, 

I  often  wonder  what  the  Vintners  buy 
One  half  so  precious  as  the  stuff  they  sell. 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the  Rose ! 
That  Youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should  close  I 

The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang. 
Ah  whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who  knows  I 

Would  but  the  Desert  of  the  Foimtain  yield 
One  glimpse — if  dimly,  yet  indeed,  revealed. 

To  which  the  fainting  Traveler  might  spring'. 
As  springs  the  trampled  herbage  of  the  field ! 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too  late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  Roll  of  Fate, 

And  make  the  stern  Recorder  otherwise 
Enregister,  or  quite  obliterate! 


294    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Ah  Love  1  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 

Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Remold  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  desire  I 


Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again — 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vain  I 

And  when  like  her,  oh  Saki,  you  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  Star-scattered  on  the  Grass, 

And  in  your  joyous  errand  reach  the  spot 
Where  I  made  One — turn  down  an  empty  Glass  1 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  (1809-1892) 
The  Lady  of  Shalott 

PART    I 

/^N  either  side  the  river  lie 
^-^   Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round   an   island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver. 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  embowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veiled, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trailed 
By  slow  horses  :  and  unbailed 
The  shallop  flittcth  silken-sailed 
Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  295 

But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  towered  Camelot: 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary. 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  "  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


PART  II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  of   Shalott. 

And  moving  through  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year. 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  tlie  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls. 

Pass  onward   from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad. 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad 
Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 


296    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

For  often  through  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of   Shalott. 


A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glittered  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
And  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung. 

Beside  remote   Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jeweled    shone    the    saddle-leather, 
The  helmet   and   the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
As  often  through  the  purple  night:. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still   Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glowed ; 
On  burnished  hooves  his  war-horse  trode ; 
From  imderneath  his  helmet  flowed 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the   river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  297 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 
She  made  three  paces  through  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  looked  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  cracked  from  side  to  side; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me  I"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


In  the  stormy  cast-wind  straininpr. 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 

The  broad  stream   in  his  banks  complaining. 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  towered  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Through  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly, 

Turned  to  towered  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reached  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


298    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by. 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame. 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 
And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face ; 
God  in  His  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

The  Lotos-Eaters 

*</^OURAGE!"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land, 
This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon. 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon ; 
And,  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliflf  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  downward  smoke. 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go  ; 

And  some  through  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a  slumberous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land :  far  off^,  three  mountain-tops. 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 

Stood  sunset-flushed  ;  and,  dewed  with  showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  lingered  low  adown 

In  the  red  West:  through  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Bordered  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale  ; 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seemed  the  same ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  299 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  tliey  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far,  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake. 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seemed,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand. 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father-land, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seemed  the  sea,  weary  the  oar. 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "We  will  return  no  more;" 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave ;  we  will  no  longer  roam." 

Sonff  of  the  Lotos-Eaters 

'  I  ""HERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes ; 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep. 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep. 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep. 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness. 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress. 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness? 

All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we  toil  alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings. 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm ; 

Nor  barken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"There  is  no  joy  but  calm!" — 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  things? 


300    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Lo!  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 

Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed  ;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  1  sweeton'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place. 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life;  ah,  why 

Should  life  all  labour  be? 

Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 

Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 

To  war  with  evil?     Is  there  any  peace 

In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 

In  silence ;  ripen,  fall  and  cease : 

Give  us  long   rest  or   death,   dark  death,   or   dreamful   ease. 

How  sweet  it  wert,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light. 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  thejieight; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech ; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach. 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory. 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass. 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass! 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 

And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 

And  their  warm   tears:  but  all  hath   suffer'd  change; 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  301 

For  surelj'  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold : 

Our  sons  inherit  us :  our  looks  are  strange : 

And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 

And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile : 

'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 

Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain. 

Long  labour  unto  aged  breath, 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wars 

And  eyes  grow  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot-stars. 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 

How  sweet   (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing  lowly) 

With  half-dropt  eyelids   still, 

Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 

From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined  vine — 

To  watch  the  emerald-colour'd  water  falling 

Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath  divine ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-oft  sparkling  brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  beneath  the  pine. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone: 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow  Lotos-dust  is 

blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we, 
Roll'd  to  starboard,   roll'd  to  larboard,  when  the   surge  was 

seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his  foam-fountains  in 

the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
On  the  hills  like,  Gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below   them    in   the   valleys,    and   the  clouds   are  lightly 

curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleaming  world: 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted  lands. 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring  deeps  and 

fiery  sands. 


302    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Clanging  fights,   and  flaming  towns,  and  sinking  ships,  and 

praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are  strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the  soil. 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine  and  oil ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some,  'tis  whisper'd — down 

in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian  valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labour  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave  and  oar ; 
O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more. 


Song 


6k  spirit  haunts  the  year's   last  hours 

Dwelling  amid  these  j'ellowing  bowers  : 
To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 
In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  smiflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly; 
Heavily  hangs   the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tigerlily. 

II 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hushed,  and  close. 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves. 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath. 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tigerlily. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  303 

From  "In  Memoriam'* 

CTRONG  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face. 
By  faith,  and   faith  alone,  embrace, 
Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  lifiht  and  shade; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest  Death,  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust ; 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why, 

He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 
And  thou  hast  made  him:   thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou. 

Our   wills   are  ours,   we  know  not  how ; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  sj'stems  have  their  day : 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be ; 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee. 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We   have   hut   faith :    we   cannot   know, 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  of  thee, 
A  beam   in  darkness :   let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 

But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 

That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 
May  make  one  music  as  before. 

But  vaster.    We  are  fools  and  slight; 

We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear: 

But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 
Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me, 
What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began ; 
For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed. 
Thy  creature,   whom   I   found   so   fair. 


304    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

I  trust  he   lives   in   thee,  and  there 
I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 

Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth; 

Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 
And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

I 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in   divers  tones. 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping  stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall   so   forecast   the  years. 

And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match? 

Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 
The  far-off  interest  of  tears? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd. 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss. 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  Death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than   that   the   victor   Hours    should    scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost. 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy   full   wings,   and   waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,   till    Phospor,  bright 
As  our  pure   love,   thro'   early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere    all    your    lights    around,    above ; 

Sleep,    gentle   heavens,   before   the   prow ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love ; 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  305 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run ; 

Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son. 
More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


"I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage. 
The  linnet  born  within  the  ca^e. 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods; 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest. 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds   of  sloth 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I   feel  it,  when  I   sorrow  most ; 

'Tis  better  to  have  loved   and   lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will. 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood; 

That  nothing  walks  vvith  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire. 

Or  but   subserves    another's    gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all. 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 


306    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

So  runs  my  dream ;  but  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night; 

An  infant   crying   for  the  light, 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

xcvi 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,    you,    whose    light-blue    eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In   many  a   subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true ; 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds. 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  mc,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He   fought  his   doubts   and   gathered   strength. 
He   would   not   make  his   judgment  blind. 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  thp  mind 

And  laid  them ;  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own, 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night,  _ 
Which    makes    the    darkness    and    the    light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the   darkness  and  the  cloud. 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

CVI 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,   happy  bells,   across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  307 

Ring  out  the   grief   that   saps   the   mind, 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 

Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 
Ring   in   redress   to   all   mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowb''  dying  cause, 

And  ancient   forms  of  party  strife; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 

Ring  out,  ring  out,   my  mournful  rhymes. 
But  ring  the   fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right; 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and   free. 

The  larger  heart,   the  kindlier  hand ; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Again  the  feast,  the   speech,  the  glee. 

The    shade    of    passing    thought,    the    wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health. 

The  crowning  cup,   the  three-times-three, 

And  last  the  dance ; — till  I  retire. 

Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud, 
And  high   in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire : 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down. 

Till  over  down  and  over  dale 

All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 
And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced   walls,   the  frlanrin?  rills. 
And  catch  at  everv  mountain  head, 
And   o'er   the    friths   that   branch   and   spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills ; 


308    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall, 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the   crowing  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge ;   under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is   Nature   like   an  open  book ; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute. 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 
And  hoped  and  suffer'd,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit; 

Whereof  the  man  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet  was  a  nobler  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe. 

That  friend  of  mind  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 

One  God,  one  law,  one  element. 

And  one  far-off  divine  event. 
To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 

"Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud'* 

f^OM'E  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

^^       For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  liebt  of  the  sun  she  loves. 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  309 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  time ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  bush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  5'oung  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those. 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall : 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood. 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake. 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 

Come  hither    the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls. 

Queen  lilv  and  rose  in  one ;  ... 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curis. 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


310    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is  near"; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "She  is  late" ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear"; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in   an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


"O  That  'Twere  Possible'' 

/^THAT  'twere  possible 
^"^       After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  I 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 

In  the  silent  woody  places 
Of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth. 

We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixed  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 

Than  anything  on  earth. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me. 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee. 
Ah,  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be ! 

From  "The  Princess" 

X 

"^JOW   sleeps   the   crimson   petal,   now  the   white ; 
^    Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
The  firefly  wakens :  waken  thou  with  me. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  311 

Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 


Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height ; 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height   (the  shepherd  sang), 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendour  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him :  by  the  happy  threshold,  he. 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize. 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats, 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine ;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver  horns. 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine. 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice. 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors : 
But  follow ;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley;  let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and  spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke. 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air : 
So  waste  not  thou ;  but  come ;  for  all  the  vales 
Av;ait  thee;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet ; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the  lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees. 


312    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
The  Splendour  Falls  on  Castle  Walls 

'X'HE  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowj'  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying,  _ 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dsnng. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and   for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes^  flying,_ 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 

'T'EARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakcn'd  birds 
To  dying  cars,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  :  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  313 

O  Swallow,  Swallow 

f\  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flj'ing  South, 
^'^    Fly  to  her  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

O  tell  her.   Swallow,  that  thou  knowest  each. 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

O  Swallow.  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow,  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill. 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in. 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself  when  all  the  woods  are  green? 

O  tell  her.  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods. 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee. 

Home  They  Brought  Her  Warrior  Dead 

XJOMR  they  brought  her  warrior  dead: 

She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry: 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 

Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 


314    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

"Break,  Break,  Break" 

IIREAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 
O,  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on. 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  I 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 
[Balaclava,  October  25,  1852] 

XJ  ALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 

Charge  for  the  guns  I"  he  said : 

Into   the  valley  of   Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  315 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air 
Sabrincf  the   gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke? 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke. 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not. 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  I 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  1 

Ulysses 

TT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

■*■  By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags. 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees.    All  times  I  have  enjoyed 


316    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Greatly,  have  suffered  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore,  and  when 

Through  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vexed  the  dim  sea.     I  am  become  a  name; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known, — cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments. 

Myself  not  least,  but  honored  of  them  all ; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethrough 

Gleams  that  untravelled  world,  whose  margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 

As  though  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to   fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  through  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toiled,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me- 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil : 
Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes  :  the  slow  moon  climbs :  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  317 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down: 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  though 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are ; — 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

Crossing!  the  Bar 

CUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar 
When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundle&s 
deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 

When   I   embark ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

The  Silent  Voices 

YJU'H'EN  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black, 
'  Brings  the  Dreams  about  my  bed. 

Call  me  not  so  often  back, 
Silent  Voices  of  the  dead. 
Toward  the  lowland  ways  behind  me, 
And  the  sunlight  that  is  gone ! 
Call  me  rather,  silent  voices. 
Forward  to  the  starry  track 
Glimmering  up  the  heights  beyond  me 
On,  and  always  on ! 


318    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 
(1811-1863) 

The  Age  of  Wisdom 

/^O,  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 

That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear. 
All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win. 
This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains. 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer; 
Sighing,  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under    Bonnybell's    window-panes, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass, 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  does  clear — 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Pledge  me  round ;  I  bid  ye  declare. 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray. 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  passed  away? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed. 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away  and  never  be  missed, 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian's  dead,  God  rest  her  bier. 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  synel 

Marian's  married,  but  I   sit  here. 

Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


The  Sorrows  of  Werthcr 

■^yERTHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
''         Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread-and-butter. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  319 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Wcrther, 
And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 

Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 

And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled. 
Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 

And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter. 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  Bread-and-Butter. 

The  End  of  the  Play 

T^HK  play  is  done;  the  curtain  drops. 
Slow  falling,  to  the  prompter's  bell : 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops 
And  looks  around  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task, 
And  when  he's  laughed  and   said  his  say, 
He  shows  as  he  removes  the  mask, 
A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends. 
Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand   to  all  young   friends. 
As  fits  the  merry  Christmas-time. 
On  Life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 
That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play; 
Good-night !  with  honest,  gentle  hearts 
A  kindly  greeting  go  alway. 

***** 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 
Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 
And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize. 
Go,  lose  or  conquer  if  you   can ; 
But  if  you  fail  or  if  you  rise. 
Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman  or  old  or  young! 
(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays) 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 
Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days. 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 
The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then: 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 
And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 


320    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 

And  wish  you  health  and  love  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 

As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 

Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


EDWARD  LEAR  (1812-1888) 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat 

nPHE  Owl  and  the  Pussy-cat  went  to  sea 

In  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat : 
They  took  some  honey,  and  plenty  of  money 

Wrapped  up  in  a  five-pound  note. 
The  Owl  looked  up  to  the  stars  above, 

And  sang  to  a  small  guitar, 
"O  lovely  Pussy,  O  Pussy,  my  love. 
What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are, 
You  are. 
You  are ! 
What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are  !" 

Pussy  said  to  the  Owl,  "You  elegant  fowl, 

How  charmingly  sweet  you  sing ! 
Oh  !  let  us  be  married  ;  too  long  we  have  tarried : 

But  what  shall  we  do  for  a  ring?" 
They  sailed  away,  for  a  year  and  a  day. 

To  the  land  where  the  bong-tree  grows ; 
And  there  in  a  wood  a  Piggy-wig  stood. 

With  a  ring  at  the  end  of  his  nose. 
His  nose. 
His  nose. 

With  a  ring  at  the  end  of  his  nose. 

"Dear  Pig,  are  you  willing  to  sell  for  one  shilling 

Your  ring?"       Said  the  Piggy,  "T  will." 
So  they  took  it  away,  and  were  married  next  day 

By  the  Turkey  who  lives  on  the  hill. 
They  dined  on  mince  and  slices  of  quince. 

Which  they  ate  with  a  runcible  spoon  ; 
And  hand  in  hand,  on  the  edge  of  the  sand, 

They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  ' 
The  moon, 
The  moon. 

They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  321 

ROBERT  BROWNING  (1812-1889) 

From  "Cavalier  Times'* 

IT  ENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  Kin^, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed   Parliament  swinpr: 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop, 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong. 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries  I 

Cavaliers,  up !     Lips  from  the  cup, 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 

Till  you're — 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

Hampton  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell. 

Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well  1 

England,  good  cheer !     Rupert  is  near  1 

Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here. 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score   strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  from  the  fight. 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song! 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 

z 

^^H,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  Aprfl's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,  some  morning,  unaware. 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now  1 


322    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 


And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  I 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 
That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 


Song  from  "Pippa  Passes' 

TPHE  year's  at  the  spring, 
•*•    And  day's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning's  at  seven ; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn ; 
God's  in  His  Heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world  I 


Evelyn  Hope 


1>EAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 
^^       Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass ;_ 

Little  has  yet  been  changed.  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink. 

II 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name ; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love ;  beside. 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim. 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares. 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir. 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  323 


Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside? 

IV 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make. 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love: 

I  claim  3'ou  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  I 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet. 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few: 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

V 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say. 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine. 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red- 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

VI 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men. 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see! 


I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while. 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold? 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep : 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep ! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


324    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
Porphyria' s  Lover 

nPHE  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 

The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 
It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 

And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake : 

I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break, 
When  glided  in  Porphyria ;  straight 

She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm, 
And  kneeled  and  made  the  cheerless  grate 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm ; 

Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her  form 
Withdrew  the  dripping  cloak  and  shawl, 

And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  untied 
Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 

And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 

And  called  me.     When  no  voice  replied. 
She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 

And  made  her  smooth   white  shoulder  bare. 
And   all   her  yellow  hair  displaced, 

And,  stooping,  made  my  cheek  lie  there. 

And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair. 
Murmuring  how  she  loved  me — she 

Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  endeavour, 
To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 

From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever. 

And  give  herself  to  me  for  ever. 
But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail. 

Nor  could  to-night's  gay  feast  restrain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

For  love  of  her,  and  all  in  vain : 

So,  she  was  come  through  wind  and  rain. 
Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eyes 

Happy  and  proud ;  at  last  I  knew 
Porphyria  worshipped  me ;  surprise 

Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it  grew 

While  I  debated  what  to  do. 
That  moment  she  was  mine,  mine,   fair, 

Perfectly  pure  and  good :  I  found 
A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 

In  one  long  yellow  string  I   wound 

Three  times  her  little  throat  around. 
And  strangled  her.     No  pain  felt  she ; 

I   am   quite   sure   she    felt  no   pain. 
As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 

I  warily  oped  her  lids :  again 

Laughed  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 
And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 

About  her  neck ;  her  cheek  once  more 


ROBERT  BROWNING  325 

Blushed   bright  beneath   my  burning  kiss : 

I  propped  her  head  up  as  before, 

Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore_ 
Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still : 

The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 
So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 

That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 

And  I,  its  love,  am  gained  instead ! 
Porphyria's  love :  she  guessed  not  how 

Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 
And  thus  we  sit  together  now. 

And  all  night  long  we  have  not  stirred, 

And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word ! 


A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's 

/^H  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find  I 

^"^    I  can  hardly  misconceive  you ;  it  would  prove  me  deaf 

and  blind ; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with  such  a  heavy 

mindl 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all  the  good 

it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  merchants 

were  the  kings, 
Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea 

with  rings? 

Ay,  because   the   sea's  the   street  there ;   and   'tis   arched  by 

....  what  you  call 
.  .  .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they  kept  the 

carnival : 
I  was  never  out  of  England — it's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea  was  warm 

in  May? 
Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  midday, 
When  they  made  up   fresh  adventures   for  the  morrow,   do 

you  say? 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so  red, — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on  its 

bed. 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might  base 

his  head? 


326    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Well,    and    it   was   graceful    of    them — they'd   break   talk   off 

and  afiford 
— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet — ^he,  to  finger  on  his 

sword, 
While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavichord? 

What?     Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  diminished, 

sigh  on  sigh, 
Told   them   something?     Those   suspensions,  those   solutions 

— "Must  we  die?" 
Those  commiserating  sevenths — "Life  might  last  I  we  can  but 

try  I" 

"Were  you  happy?" — "Yes" — "And  are  you  still  as  happy?" 

"Yes.    And  you?" 
— "Then,  more  kisses !" — "Did  /  stop  them,   when  a  million 

seemed  so  few?" 
Hark  1  the  dominant's  persistence,  till  it  must  be  answered  to ! 

So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.     Oh,  they  praised  you,  I 

dare  say! 
"Brave   Galuppi !  that  was   music  I   good  alike  at  grave  and 

gay! 
I  can  always  leave  of?  talking,  when  I  hear  a  master  play," 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure :  till  in  due  time,  one  by 

one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as 

well  undone, 
Death   came   tacitly   and   took   them    where   they   never    see 

the  sun. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand  nor 

swerve. 
While    I    triumph    o'er   a    secret   wrung   frorq    nature's   close 

reserve. 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music,  till  I  creep  through  every 

nerve. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  house  was 
burned : 

"Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent  what 
Venice  earned  1 

The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where  a  soul  can  be  dis- 
cerned. 

"Yours  for  instance:  you  know  physics,  something  of  ge- 
ology, 


ROBERT  BROWNING  327 

Mathematics  are  your  pastime ;  souls  shall  rise  in  their  de- 
Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you'll  not  die,  it  cannot  be  I 

"As   for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to  bloom  and 

drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly  were 

the  crop ; 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had  to 

stop? 

"Dust  and  ashes !"     So  you  creak  it,  and  I   want  the  heart 

to  scold. 
Dear   dead   women,    with    such   hair,    too — what's   become   of 

all  the  gold 
Used   to  hang   and  brush   their  bosoms?     I    feel   chilly   and 

grown  old. 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 

Shortly  After  the  Revival  of  Learning   in  Europe 
¥   ET  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row ! 
That's  the  appropriate  country;  there,  man's  thought. 

Rarer,  intenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought. 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top. 

Crowded  with  culture ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels ; 

Clouds  overcome  it; 
No !  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its   summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies ;  wind  we  up  the  heights ; 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders  1 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm  and  dead. 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 


328    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd !  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft, 

Safe  from  the  weather  I 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo ! 
Long  he  lived  nameless :  how  should  Spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone  I 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon ! 

My  dance  is  finished?" 
No,  that's  the  world's  way :  (keep  the  mountain-side. 

Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 
"What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

Give  !" — So,  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page : 

Learned,  we   found  him. 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like  lead. 

Accents  uncertain : 
"Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain  1" 
This  man  said  rather,  "Actual  life  comes  next? 

Patience  a  moment ! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text. 

Still   there's   the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least. 

Painful  or  easy! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live. 

When  he  had  learned  it. 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give ! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Imagine  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts — 

Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick ! 
(Here's  the  town-gate  reached :  there's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus  !) 


ROBERT  BROWNING  329 

That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to  live — 

No  end  to  learning: 
Earn  the  means  first — God  surely  will  contrive 

Use   for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  "But  time  escapes : 

Live  now  or  never !" 
He  said,  "What's  time?    Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes! 

Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then  :  deeper  drooped  his  head : 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead : 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
"Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest !" — not  he ! 

(Caution  redoubled, 
Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly!) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his   studies,   fresher  than   at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He   (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain ! 
Was  it  not  great?  did  not  he  throw  on  God, 

(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the   earthen? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing — heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure : 
"Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not?"    He  answered  "Yes I 

Hence   with   life's   pale   lure!" 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it: 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
This  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit: 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million. 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need  the  next. 

Let  the  world  mind  him ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar ; 


330    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business — let  it  be  1 — 

Properly  based  Ouyi — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper  place: 

Hail  to  your  purlieus. 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews ! 
Here's  the  top-peak ;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 

Bury  this   man  there? 
Here — here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form. 

Lightnings  are  loosened. 
Stars  come  and  go!     Let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send  I 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects : 

Loftily  lying. 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects. 

Living  and  dying. 


The  Last  Ride  Together 

T  said — Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so. 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know. 

Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails. 

Since  all,  my  life  seem'd  meant  for,  fails. 

Since   this   was    written   and   needs   must   be — 

My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 

Your  name  in  pride   and  thankfulness ! 

Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 

Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 

— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame ; 

Your   leave    for  one  more   last   ride   with   me. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers. 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fix'd  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance:  right! 
The  blood  replenish'd  me  again ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain : 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,   breathe  and   ride,- 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night? 


ROBERT  BROWNING  331 

Hush !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosom'd,  over-bow'd 

By  many  benedictions — sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best. 
Conscious  grew,   your   passion   drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here ! — 
Thus  leant  she  and  linger'd — joy  and  fearl 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smooth'd  itself  out,  a  long-cramp'd  scroll 
Freshening  and   fluttering  in   the   wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this. 
So  might  I  gain,^  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 


Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds? 
We  rode ;  it  seem'd  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,   cities  new, 

As  the  world  rush'd  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought.— rAll   labour,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  uncuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past  I 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me ;  here  we  ride. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  pair'd? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshly  screen? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There's   many  a  crown    for   who  can   reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing!  what  atones? 
They   scratch    his   name    on    the    Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 


332    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?    Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only;  you  express'd 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace   them   in   rhyme   so,    side  by  side. 
'Tis  something,  nay  'tis  much :  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what's  best  for  men? 
Are  you — poor,   sick,  old  ere  yoiir  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  never  have  turn'd  a  rhyme? 

Sing,  riding's  a  joy!     For  me,   I  ride. 


And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art  her  slave. 
And  that's  j'our  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  ! 

You  acquiesce,  and   shall   I   repine? 
What,  man  of  music,  j'ou  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say. 
Is  this  your  sole  praise   from  a  friend, 
"Greatly  his  opera's   strains   intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end  1" 

I  gave  my  youth :  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  sign'd  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond. 

Have   a  bliss   to   die   with,   dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal. 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul. 
Could  I  descrj'  such  ?     Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best? 

Now,    heaven    and    she    are    beyond    this    ride. 


And  3'et — she  has  not  spoke  so  long ! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,   fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturn'd 
Whither   life's   flower   is   first   discern'd. 

We,  fix'd  so.  ever  should  so  abide? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two 
With  life  for  ever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree. 
The  instant  made  eternitJ^ — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,   for  ever   ride? 


ROBERT  BROWNING  333 

Memorabilia 

(1792-1822) 

AH,  did  j-ou  once  see  Shelley  plain^ 
■^       And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 
And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems  and  new  I 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  were  living  after ; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter ! 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world  no  doubt. 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about : 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 
A  molted  feather,  an  eagle-feather ! 

Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 

Parting  at  Morniyig 

1>  OUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea. 

And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's  rim : 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him. 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 

Song 
From  "In  a  Gondola" 

nr HE  moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 
You  were  not  sure,   this  eve, 
How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 
Its  petals  up ;  so,  here  and  there 
You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 
Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 


334    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 


Summiim  Bonum 

\  LL  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  j-ear  in  the  bag  of  one 
-^^  bee: 

All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine  in  the  heart  of  one 
gem: 
In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade  and  the  shine  of  the  sea: 
Breath  and  bloom,  shade  and  shine, — wonder,  wealth,  and 
— how  far  above  them — 

Truth,  that's  brighter  than  gem. 
Trust,  that's  purer  than  pearl, — 
Brightest  truth,  purest  trust  in  the  universe — all  were  for  me 
In  the  kiss  of  one  girl. 


Prospice 

"r\  EAR  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 
■^       The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place. 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form. 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers   fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  "fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained. 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fightef,  so — one  fight  more. 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  ej-es,  and  forbore. 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The   heroes  of  old. 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave. 

The   black   minute's   at   end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave. 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain. 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast. 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul!    I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  335 

Epilogue 
Frojft  "Jsolatido" 

A  T  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 
■^^       When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

\\'ill  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  j^ou,  whom  you  loved  so, 
— Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken  I 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who  ? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break. 
Never   dreamed,   though    right   were    worsted,    wrong   would 

triumph. 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  bafHed  to  fight  better. 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer ! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive !"  cry  "Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here  i" 


EMILY  BRONTE  (1818-1848) 

The  Prisoner 

C  TILL  let  my  tyrants  know,  I  am  not  doom'd  to  wear 

Year  after  year  in  gloom  and  desolate  despair; 
A  messenger  of  Hope  comes  every  night  to  me, 
And  offers  'for  short  life,  eternal  liberty. 

He  comes  with  Western  winds,  with  evening's  wandering  airs. 
With  that  clear  dusk  of  heaven  that  brings  the  thickest  stars : 
Winds  take  a  pensive  tone,  and  stars  a  tender  fire. 
And  visions  rise,  and  change,  that  kill  me  with  desire. 

Desire  for  nothing  known  in  my  maturer  years. 

When  Joy  grew  mad  with   awe,  at  counting  future  tears : 

When,  if  my  spirit's  sky  was  full  of  flashes  warm, 

I  knew  not  whence  they  came,  from  sun  or  thunder-storm. 


336    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

But  first,  a  hush  of  peace — a  soundless  calm  descends ; 
The  struggle  of  distress  and  fierce  impatience  ends. 
Mute  music  soothes  my  breast — unutter'd  harmony 
That  I  could  never  dream,  till  Earth  was  lost  to  me. 

Then  dawns  the  Invisible ;  the  Unseen  its  truth  reveals ; 
My  outward  sense  is  gone,  my  inward  essence  feels ; 
Its  wings  are  almost  free — its  home,  its  harbour  found ; 
Measuring  the  gulf,  it  stoops,  and  dares  the  final  bound. 

O  dreadful  is  the  check — intense  the  agony — 
When  the  ear  begins  to  hear,  and  the  eye  begins  to  see ; 
When  the  pulse  begins  to  throb — the  brain  to  think  again- 
The  soul  to  feel  the  flesh,  and  the  flesh  to  feel  the  chain. 

Yet  I  would  lose  no  sting,  would  wish  no  torture  less ; 
The  more  that  anguish  racks,  the  earlier  it  will  bless ; 
And  robed  in  fires  of  hell,  or  bright  with  heavenly  shine, 
If  it  but  herald  Death,  the  vision  is  divine. 


Last  Lines 

"^"O  coward  soul  is  mine, 
^    No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled 
sphere : 
I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast. 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  power  in  Theel 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts :  unutterably  vain ; 

Worthless  as  wither'd  weeds. 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so   fast  by  thine   infinity; 

So  surely  anchor'd  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With   wide-embracing  love 
Thy  Spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above. 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates,  and  rears. 


GP:0RGE    ELIOT  337 

Though   earth   and   man   were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be. 

And  Thou   were*  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could   render  void : 

Thou — Thou  art  Being  and   Breath, 
And  what  Thou  art  may  never  be  destroy 'd. 


GEORGE  ELIOT   (1819-1880) 

"Oh,  May  I  Join  the  Choir  Invisible" 

/^H,  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

^"^    Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence ;  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity. 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self. 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  This  is  life  to  come. 

Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 

For  us  who   strive  to   follow.     May  I  reach 

That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 

The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony. 

Enkindle  generous  ardour,  feed  pure  love, 

Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty. 

Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused. 

And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 

So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

Abridged. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY  (1819-1875) 
The  Sands  of  Dee 

"O  ^'^^^y'  so  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee !" 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 


338    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land : 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"Oh !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling   foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee ! 


The  Three  Fishers 

TpHREE  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  West, 

Away  to  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best, 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower. 
And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown. 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  home  to  the  town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep ; 
And  good-by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH  339 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH   (1819-1861) 

"Say  Not,  the  Struggle  Naught  Availeth" 

CAY  not,  the  struggle  naught  availeth, 

The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain. 
The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 

And   as   things   have  been   they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 

Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 
Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 

Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only. 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light; 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

FREDERICK    LOCKER-LAMPSON    (1821-1895) 
The  Unrealised  Ideal 

"jVTY  only  Love  is  always  near, — 

In  country  or  in  town 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 
The  whisper  of  her  gown. 

She  foots  it  ever  fair  and  young, 

Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste, 
And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung, 

And  hangs  below  her  waist. 

She  ran  before  me  in  the  meads ; 

And  down  this  world-worn  track 
She  leads  me  on ;  but  while  she  leads 

She  never  gazes  back. 

And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams. 

To  witch  me  more  and  more ; 
That  wooing  voice !     Ah  me,  it  seems 

Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 


340    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Lightly  I  sped  when  hope  was  high, 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase ; 

I  follow — follow  still ;  but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  Face. 

At  Her  Window 

II  EATING  Heart!  we  come  again 

Where  my  Love  reposes : 
This  is  Mabel's  window-pane ; 
These  are  Mabel's  roses. 

Is  she  nested?    Does  she  kneel 

In  the  twilight  stilly, 
Lily  clad  from  throat  to  heel, 

She,  my  virgin  Lily? 

Soon  the  wart,  the  wistful  stars. 

Fading,  will  forsake  her ; 
Elves  of  light,  on  beamy  bars. 

Whisper  then,  and  wake  her. 

Let  this  friendly  pebble  plead 

At  her  flowery  grating ; 
If  she  hear  me  will  she  heed? 

Mabel,  I  am  waiting. 

Mabel  will  be  deck'd  anon, 

Zoned  in  bride's  apparel ; 
Happy  zone !  O  hark  to  yon 

Passion-shaken  carol  I 

Sing  thy  song,  thou  tranced  thrush. 
Pipe  thy  best,  thy  clearest ; — 

Hush,  her  lattice  moves,  O  hush — 
Dearest  Mabel! — dearest  .  .  . 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822-1? 
Quiet  Work 

/^NE  lesson.  Nature,  let  me  learn  of  thee, 
^-^  One  lesson  which  in  every  wind  is  blown. 
One  lesson  of  two  duties  kept  at  one, 
Though  the  loud  world  proclaim  their  enmity- 

Of  toil  unsevercd  from  tranquillity! 
Of  labour,  that  in  lasting  fruit  outgrows 
Far  noisier  schemes,  accomplished  in  repose, 
Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry! 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  341 

Yes !  while  on  earth  a  thousand  discords  ring, 
Man's  fitful  uproar  minpling  with  his  toil, 
Still  do  thy  sleepless  ministers  move  on, 
Their  glorious  tasks  in  silence  perfecting; 
Still  working,  blaming  still  our  vain  turmoil, 
Labourers  that  shall  not  fail,  when  man  is  gone. 


Reqtiiescat 

OTREW  on  her  roses,  roses, 

And  never  a  spray  of  yew. 
In  quiet  she  reposes : 
Ah  !  would  that  I  did  too. 

Her  mirth  the  world  required : 
She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 

But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd,  ample  Spirit, 

It  flutter'd  and   fail'd   for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  Hall  of  Death. 


Dover  Beach 

'I 'HE  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 
Upon  the  straits ; — on  the  French  coast  the  light 
Gleams  and  is  gone ;  the  clififs  of  England  stand, 
Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 
Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air ! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanched  land, 
Listen !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 
Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling, 
At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,   and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 


342    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  ^gean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  sea  of  faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled. 

But  now  I  only  hear 

Its   melancholy,    long,   withdrawing   roar. 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 

And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another !  for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace  nor  help  for  pain ; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


Morality 

Y\^E  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 
^^     The  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides; 

The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still, 

In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled. 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  ofif  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye. 
Ask,  how  she  viewed   thy  self-control, 
Thy  struggling,  tasked  morality — 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  343 

And  she,  whose  answer  thou  dost  dread. 
Whose  eye  thou  wast  afraid  to  seek, 
See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 
A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek ! 

"Ah,  child,"  she  cries,  "that  strife  divine, 

Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine? 

"There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow — 

I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep ; 

I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres  and  glow 

In  joy,  and  when  I  will,  I  sleep. 

Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 

I  saw,  I   felt  it  once — but  where? 

"I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 
Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space; 
I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime, 
I  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 

'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 

And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God." 


The  Scholar-Gipsy 

/TJ,  O,  for  they  call  you.  Shepherd,  from  the  hill ; 
^^       Go,  Shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes: 
No   longer   leave   thy   wistful    flock   unfed. 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 
Nor  the  cropped  grasses  shoot  another  head. 
But  when  the  fields  are  still. 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest. 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 
Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanched  green ; 
Come,  Shepherd,  and  again  begin  the  quest. 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late. 

In  this  high   field's  dark  corner,   where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruise. 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves. 

Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to  use ; 
Here  will  I  sit  and  wait. 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands   far  away 

The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne. 

With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  sumrrter's  day. 

Screened  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reaped  field, 
And  here  till  sundown.  Shepherd,  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 


344    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep: 
And  air-swept  lindens  yield 

Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfumed  showers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade ; 

And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers : 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again : 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 

Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  Preferment's  door, 
One  summer  morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  Gipsy  lore, 

And  roamed  the  world  with  that  wild  brotherhood, 

And  came,  as  most  men  deemed,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country  lanes. 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew, 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  inquired. 
Whereat  he  answered  that  the  Gipsy  crew. 

His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 
The  workings  of  men's  brains ; 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they  will : 

"And  I,"  he  said,  "the  secret  of  their  art. 

When  fully  learned,  will  to  the  world  impart: 
But  it  needs  Heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill  I" 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  returned  no  more, 
But  rumors  hung  about  the  country-side. 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray. 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 

In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  gray. 
The  same  the  Gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring ; 

At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors. 

On  the  warm  ingle-bench,  the  smock-frocked  boors 
Had   found  him  seated  at  their  entering. 

But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly: 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks. 

And  put  the  shepherds,  Wanderer,   on   thy  trace; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 

I  ask  if  thou  hast  passed  their  quiet  place; 
Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moored  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer  heats, 
'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills. 

And  watch  the  warm  green-muffled  Cumner  hills. 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  345 

For  most.  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground. 
Thee,  at  the  ferry,  Oxford  riders  bhthe, 

Returning  home  on  summer  nights,  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripHng  Thames  at  Bablock-hithe, 

TraiHng  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 
As  the  slow  punt  swings  round : 
And  leaning  backwards  in  a  pensive  dream. 

And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 

Plucked  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wychwood  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream : 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more. 
Maidens  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 

To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee  roam, 

Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 
Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers — the   frail-leafed,   white  anemone — 

Dark  bluebells  drenched  with  dews  of  summer  eves, 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves — 
But  none  has  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 

And,   above   Godstow   Bridge,   when,  hay-time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass 
Where  black-winged  swallows  haunt  the  glittering  Thames, 

To  bathe  in  the  abandoned  lasher  pass, 
Have  often  passed  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown : 

Marked  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 

Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air ; 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wert  gone. 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns, 

Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 
For  cresses   from  the  rills. 
Have  known  thee  watching,  all  an  April  day. 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine ; 
And  marked  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and  shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away. 

In  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood, 
Where  most  the  Gipsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 

Pitch  their  smoked  tents,  and  every  bush  you  see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagged  and  shreds  of  gray, 
Above  the  forest-ground  called  Thessaly — 
The  blackbird  picking  food 


346    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  withered  spray. 

And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  Heaven  to  fall. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 
Where  home  through  flooded  fields   foot-travelers  go. 

Have  I  not  passed  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge 
Wrapped  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow. 

Thy  face  towards  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge? 
And  thou  hast  climbed  the  hill 
And  gained  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range ; 

Turned  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snowflakes  fall, 

The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ  Church  hall — 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequestered  grange. 

But  what — I  dream !     Two  hundred  years  are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 
And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wandered  from  the  studious  walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  Gipsy  tribe: 
And  thou   from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid ; 
Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown  grave 
Tall  grasses   and  white  flowering  nettles  wave — 
Under  a  dark  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 

— No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours. 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men? 

'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 

Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls. 
And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 

And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit. 

To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are — what  we  have  been. 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  shouldst  thou  perish,   so? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire ; 

Else  wert  thou  long  since  numbered  with  the  dead — 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy  fire. 

The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot. 

And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 

And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page. 
Because  thou  hadst — what  we,  alas,  have  not ! 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  347 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 

Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things ; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 

Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baffled,  brings. 
O  Life  unlike  to  ours! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 

Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what  he  strives, 

And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in  hope. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  Heaven :  and  we. 
Vague  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  willed. 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 

Whose  weak  resolves  never  have  been  fulfilled; 
For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new ; 

Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 

And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day — 
Ah,  do  not  we,  Wanderer,  await  it  too? 

Yes,  we  await  it,  but  it  still  delays, 

And  then  we  suffer ;  and  amongst  us  One, 

Who  most  has  suffered,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne ; 

And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs. 

And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed. 

And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and  how  the  head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest :  and  we  others  pine. 
And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear, 
With  close-lipped  Patience  for  our  only  friend,     ■     ■ 

Sad  Patience,  too  near  neighbour  to  Despair: 
But  none  has  hope  like  thine. 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the  woods  dost  stray, 

Roaming  the  country-side,  a  truant  boy. 

Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy. 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear. 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims. 

Its  heads  o'ertaxed,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife- 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear  I 


348    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood ! 
Averse,  as   Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn, 

Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude. 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade. 

With  a  free  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silvered  branches  of  the  glade — 

Far  on  the   forest-skirts,  where  none  pursue, 
On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales. 

Freshen  thy  flowers,  as  in  former  years. 

With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears. 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales. 

But  fly  our  path's,  our  feverish  contact  fly! 

For  strong  the  infection   of  our  mental   strife, 

Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life. 

Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 
Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die. 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfixed  thy  powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made : 

And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles  I 
— As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-haired  creepers  stealthily, 

The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 
Among  the  ^gean  isles  ; 
And   saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come. 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine. 

Green  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steef)ed  in  brine ; 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 

The  young  light-hearted  Masters  of  the  waves ; 
And  snatched  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more  sail. 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  Western  Straits,  and  unbent  sails 

There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets  of  foam. 

Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  349 

Thyrsis 

A   Monody,   to   commemorate   the   author's  friend, 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  who  died  at  Florence,  1861. 

T-T  0\V  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  fills ! 
•*       In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothinpf  keeps  the  same; 

The  village-street  its  haunted  mansion  lacks, 
And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's  name, 

And   from   the   roofs   the   twisted   chimney-stacks — 
Are  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills  ! 
See.  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 

To-night  from  Oxford  up  your  pathway  strays  f 

Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old  days — 
Thyrsis  and  I ;  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then. 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth  Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm-tree  crowns 

The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sunset  flames? 
The  signal-elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  Downs, 

The  Vale,  the  three  lone  weirs,  the  youthful  Thames? — 
This   winter-evi^   is   warm. 
Humid  the  air !  leafless,  yet  soft  as  spring, 

The  tender  purple  spray  on  copse  and  briers ! 

And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dreaming  spires 
She  needs  not  June   for  beauty's  heightening, 

Lovely,  all  times  she  lies,  lovely  to-night ! — 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's  power 

Befalls  me  wandering  through  this  upland  dim. 
Once  pass'd  I  blindfolded  here,  at  any  hour; 

Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came  with  him. 
That  single  elm-tree  bright 
Against  the  west — I  miss  it!   is   it  gone? 

We  prized  it  dearly;  while  it  stood,  we  said, 

Our  friend,  the  Gipsy-Scholar,  was  not  dead ; 
While  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these  fields  lived  on. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here. 

But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each  flower,  each  stick; 

And  with  the  country-folk  acquaintance  made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new-built  rick. 

Here,  too,  our  shepherd-pipes  we  first  assay'd. 
Ah  me !  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost,  my  shepherd's-holiday  1 

Needs  must  I  lose  them,  needs  with  heavy  heart 

Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart; 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went  away. 


350    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

It  irk'd  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields, 

He  loved  his  mates ;  but  yet  he  could  not  keep, 
For  that  a  shadow  lower'd  on  the  fields, 

Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly  sheep. 
Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  fill'd  his  head. 

He  went ;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 

Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead. 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 
When  the  j^ear's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er. 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day — 
When  garden-walks  and  all  the  grassy  floor 

With  blossoms  red  and   white  of  fallen  May 
And  chestnut  flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry. 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden-trees, 

Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze : 
The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I ! 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go? 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps  come  on, 

Soon   will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell. 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 

Sweet-William  with  his  homely  cottage-smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar, 

And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 

And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden-trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening-star. 

He  hearkens  not !  light  comer,  he  is  flown  I 
What  matters  it?  next  year  he  will  return. 

And  we  shall  have  him  in  the  sweet  spring-days, 
With  wliitening  hedges,  and  uncrumpling  fern, 

And  blue-bells  trembling  by  the  forest-ways. 
And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis  never  more  we  swains  shall  see ; 

See  him  come  back,   and   cut  a  smoother  reed, 

And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  last  shall  heed — 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquer'd  thee  I 

Alack,  for  Corydon  no  rival  now ! — 

But  when  Sicilian  shepherds  lost  a  mate, 

Some  good  survivor  with  his  flute  would  go. 
Piping  a  ditty  sad  for  Bion's  fate; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  351 

And  cross  the  unpermitted  ferry's  flow, 
And  relax  Pluto's  brow, 
And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beauteous  head 

Of  Proserpine,  amonp;  whose  crowned  hair 

Are  flowers  first  open'd  on  Sicilian  air, 
And  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus,  from  the  dead. 

0  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace 

When  Dorian  shepherds  sanpr  to  Proserpine  1 

For  she  herself  had  trod  Sicilian  fields. 
She  knew  the  Dorian  water's  gush  divine. 

She  knew  each  lily  white  which  Enna  yields, 
Each    rose    with   blushing    face ; 
She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian  strain. 

But  ah,   of  our  poor  Thames   she  never  heard  1 

Her  foot  the  Cumner  cowslips  never  stirr'd ; 
And   we  should  tease  her   with   our  plaint  in  vain  I 

Well !  wind-dispersed  and  vain  the  word  will  be, 
Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its  hour 

In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree-topp'd  hill  1 
Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath  power? 

I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the  daffodil, 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree, 
I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritillaries 

The  grassy  harvest  of   the   river-fields 

Above  by  Ensham,  down  by  Sandford,  yields. 
And  what  sedged  brooks  are  Thames's  tributaries ; 

1  know  these  slopes;   who  knows  them   if  not  I? — 
But  many  a  dingle  on  the  loved  hill-side. 

With  thorns  once  studded,  old,  white-blossom'd  trees, 
Where  thick  the  cowslips  grew,  and   far  descried 

High  tower'd  the  spikes  of  purple  orchises, 
Hath  since  our  day  put  by 
The  coronals  of  that   forgotten  time; 

Down  each  green  bank  hath  gone  the  plough-boy's  team. 

And  only  in  the  hidden  brookside  gleam 
Primroses,  orphans  of  the  flowery  prime. 

Where  is  the  girl,  who  by  the  boatman's  door, 
Above  the  locks,   above  the  boating  throng, 

Unmoor'd  our   skiffs  when   through  the  Wytham  flats, 
Red   loosestrife   and   blond   meadow-sweet  among. 

And  darting  swallows  and  light  water-gnats. 
We  track'd  the   shy  Thames   shore? 
Where  are  the  mowers,  who,  as  the  tiny  swell 

Of  our  boat  passing  heaved  the  river-grass. 

Stood  with  suspended  scythe  to  see  us  pass? — 
They  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  gone  as  well ! 


352    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Yes,  thou  art  gone !  and  round  me  too  the  night 
In,ever-ncaring  circle  weaves  her  shade. 

I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the  day, 
I   feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 

The  cheek  grown  thin,  the  brown  hair  sprent  with  grey; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausefully  upon  life's  headlong  train; — 

The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning  dew, 

The  heart  less  bounding  at  emotion  new, 
And  hope,  once  crush'd,  less  quick  to  spring  again. 

And  long  the  way  appears,  which  seem'd  so  short 
To  the  less  practised  eye  of  sanguine  youth ; 

And  high  the  mountain-tops,  in  cloudy  air. 
The  mountain-tops  where  is  the  throne  of  Truth, 

Tops  in  life's  morning-sun  so  bright  and  barel 
Unbreachable  the  fort 
Of  the  long-batter'd  world  uplifts  its  wall ; 

And  strange  and  vain  the  earthly  turmoil  grows, 

And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy  repose, 
And  night  as  welcome  as  a  friend  would  fall. 

But  hush !  the  upland  hath  a  sudden  loss 
Of  quiet! — Look,  adown  the  dusk  hillside, 

A  troop  of  Oxford  hunters  going  home. 
As  in  old  days,  jovial  and  talking,  ride! 

From  hunting  with   the   Berkshire  hounds   they  come. 
Quick!  let  me  fly,  and  cross 
Into   yon    farther    field — 'Tis    done ;    and    see, 

Back'd  by  the  sunset,  which  doth  glorify 

The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening-sky. 
Bare  on  its  lonely  ridge,  the  Tree !  the  Tree ! 

I  take  the  omen !     Eve  lets  down  her  veil. 

The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush  to  bush  about. 

The  west  unflushes,  the  high  stars  grow  bright, 
And  in  the  scatter'd   farms  the  lights  come  out; 

I  cannot  reach  the  signal-tree  to-night. 
Yet,  happ3'  omen,  hail ! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Arno-vale 

(For  there  thine  earth-forgetting  eyelids  keep 

The  morningless  and  unawakening  sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale), 

Hear  it,  O  Thyrsis,  still  our  tree  is  there ! — 
Ah.  vain  !    These  English  fields,  this  upland  dim, 

These  brambles  pale  with  mist  engarlanded, 
That  lone,  sky-pointing  tree,  are  not  for  him ; 
To  a  boon  southern  country  he  is  fled, 
And  now  in  happier  air, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  353 

Wandering  with  the  great  Mother's  train  divine 
(And  purer  or  more  subtle  soul  than  thee, 
I  trow,  the  mighty  Mother  doth  not  see) 

Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine, 

Thou  hearest  the  immortal  chants  of  old  !— 
Putting  his   sickle   to   the   perilous   grain 

In  the  hot  cornfield  of  the  Phrygian  king. 
For  thee  the  Lityerses-song  again 

Young  Daphnis  with  his  silver  voice  doth  sing; 
Sings  his  Sicilian  fold, 
His  sheep,  his  hapless  love,  his  blinded  eyes — 

And  how  a  call  celestial  round  him  rang. 

And  heavenward  from  the  fountain-brink  he  sprang, 
And  all  the  marvel  of  the  golden  skies. 

There  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou  leavest  here 
Sole  in  these  fields !  yet  will  I  not  despair. 

Despair  I  will  not,  while  I  yet  descry 
Under  mild  canopy  of  English  air 

That  lonely  tree  against  the  western  sky. 
Still,  still  these  slopes,  'tis  clear. 
Our  Gipsy-Scholar  haunts,  outliving  thee ! 

Fields  where  soft  sheep  from  cages  pull  the  hay, 

Woods  with  anemonies  in  flower  till  May, 
Know  him  a  wanderer  still;  then  why  not  me? 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 

This  does  not  come  with  houses  or  with  gold, 
With  place,  with  honour,  and  a  flattering  crew; 

'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought  and  sold— 
But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  untired ; 

Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone. 

He  wends  unfollow'd,  he  must  house  alone; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  inspired. 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wast  bound  I 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little  hour ! 

Men  gave  thee  nothing ;  but  this  happy  quest, 
H  men  esteem'd  thee  feeble,  gave  thee  power, 

If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave  thee  rest. 
And  this  rude  Cumner  ground 
Its  fir-topped  Hurst,  its   farms,  its  quiet  fields, 

Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocund  youthful  time. 

Here   was   thine   height   of   strength,   thy  golden   prime  1 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue  yields. 


354    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

What  though  the  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy,  country  tone ; 

Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy  note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who  groan, 

Which  task'd  thy  pipe  too  sore,  and  tired  thy  throat- 
It   fail'd,  and   thou   wast  mute ! 
Yet  hadst  thou  alway  visions  of  our  light, 

And  long  with  men  of  care  thou  couldst  not  stay, 

And  soon  thy  foot  resumed  its  wandering  way. 
Left  human  haunt,  and  on  alone  till  night. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here ! 
'Mid  city-noise,  not,  as  with  thee  of  yore, 

Thyrsis !  in  reach  of  sheep-bells  is  my  home. 
— Then  through  the  great  town's  harsh,  heart-wearying  roar 

Let  in  thy  voice  a  whisper  often  come 
To  chase   fatigue  and   fear : 
Why  faintest  thou?    I  wander' d  till  I  died. 

Roam  on!     The  light  ive  sought  is  shining  still. 

Dost  thou  ask  proof?     Our  tree  yet  crowns  the  hill. 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hillside. 


From  "Empedocles  on  Etna" 

"IX^E  would  have  inward  peace, 
''     Yet  will  not  look  within; 
We  would  have  misery  cease. 
Yet  will  not  cease  from  sin ; 
We  want  all  pleasant  ends,  but  will  use  no  harsh  means ; 

We  do  not  what  we  ought. 
What  we  ought  not,  we  do, 
And  lean  upon  the  thought 
That  chance  will  bring  us  through ; 
But  our  own  acts  for  good  or  ill  are  mightier  powers. 

Yet,  even  when  man  forsakes 
All  sin, — is  just,  is  pure. 
Abandons  all  which  makes 
His  welfare  insecure, — 
Other  existences  there  are,  that  clash  with  ours. 

Like  us,  the  lightning-fires 
Love  to  have  scope  and  play; 
The  stream,  like  us,  desires 
An  unimpeded  way ; 
Like  us,  the  Libyan  wind  delights  to  roam  at  large. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  356 

Streams  will  not  curb  their  pride 
The  just  man  not  to  entomb, 
Nor  lightnings  go  aside 
To  give  his  virtues  room ; 
Nor  is  that  wind  less  rough  which  blows  a  good. 

Nature,  with  equal  mind, 

Sees  all  her  sons  at  play ; 

Sees  man  control  the  wind. 

The  wind  sweep  man  away ; 

Allows   the  proudly-riding   and   the   foundering  bark. 
******* 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoy'd  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done ; 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat  down  baffling  foes ; 

That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 
Of  doubtful   future  date. 
And  while  we  dream  on  this 
Lose  all  our  present  state, 
And  relegate  to  worlds  yet  distant  our  repose? 

Not  much,  I  know,  you  prize 
What  pleasures  may  be  had. 
Who  look  on  life  with  eyes 
Estranged,  like  mine,  and  sad : 
And  yet  the  village  churl  feels  the  truth  more  than  you ; 

Who's  loth  to  leave  this  life 
Which  to  him  little  yields : 
His   hard-task'd  sunburnt  wife, 
His  often-labour'd  fields ; 
The  boors  with  whom  he  talk'd,  the  country  spots  he  knew. 

I  say,  Fear  not!  life  still 
Leaves  human  effort  scope. 
But  since  life  teems  with  ill, 
Nurse  no  extravagant  hope. 
Because  thou  must  not  dream,  thou  need'st  not  then  despair. 

Shakespeare 

ZITHERS  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
^^  We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill, 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty. 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 


356    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 

To  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality; 

And  thou,   who  didst  the  stars   and   sunbeams  know, 

Self-schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honoured,  self-secure, 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at. — Better  so ! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 

From  "Lines  Written  in  Kensington  Gardens* 

/^ALM  Soul  of  all  things!  make  it  mine 
^^  To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar. 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine, 
Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar. 

The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others  give. 
Calm,  calm  me  more ;  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 

The  Buried  Life 

T  IGHT  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words ;  and  yet 

Behold,  with  tears  mine  eyes  are  wet ! 
I  feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll. 
Yes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest. 
We  know,  we  know,  that  we  can  smile ! 
But  there's  a  something  in  this  breast, 
To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest. 
And  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne ; 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile. 
And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine. 
And  let  me  read  there,  love !  thy  inmost  soul. 

Alas !  is  even  love  too  weak 

To  unlock  the  heart  and  let  it  speak? 

Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 

To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel? 

I  knew  the  mass  of  common  men  concealed 

Their  thoughts,  for  fear  that  if  revealed 

They  would  by  other  men  be  met 

With  blank  indifference,  or  with  blame  reproved; 

I  knew  they  lived  and  moved 

Tricked  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest 

Of  men,  and  alien  to  themselves — and  yet 

The  same  heart  beats  in  every  human  breast! 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  357 

But  we,  my  love !  doth  a  like  spell  benumb 

Our  hearts,  our  voices?     Must  we,  too,  be  dumb? 

Ah,  well  for  us,  if  even  wc, 

Even  for  a  moment,  can  get  free 

Our  heart,  and  have  our  lips  unchained ; 

For  that  which  seals  them  hath  been  deep  ordained! 

Fate,  which  foresaw 

How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be, — 

By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possessed, 

How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife, 

And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity, — 

That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 

His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey 

Even  in  his  own  despite  his  being's  law, 

Bade  through  the  deep  recesses  of  our  breast 

The  unregarded  river  of  our  life 

Pursue  with  indiscernible  flow  its  way; 

And  that  we  should  not  see 

The  buried  stream,  and  seem  to  be 

Eddying  at  large  in  blind  uncertainty, 

Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the  world's  mo'^t  crowded  streets, 

But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife. 

There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 

After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life, 

A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  force 

In  tracking  out  our  true,  original  course ; 

A  longing  to  inquire 

Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  which  beats 

So  wild,  so  deep  in  us, — to  know 

Whence  our  lives  come,  and  where  they  go. 

And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then  delves. 

But  deep  enough,  alas !  none  ever  mines. 

And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines, 

And  we  have  shown,  on  each,  spirit  and  power; 

But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour. 

Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been  ourselves, — 

Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 

The    nameless    feelings    that    course    throughout 

our  breast. 
But  they  course  on  forever  unexpressed. 
And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 
Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 
Is   eloquent,  is  well — but   'tis  not  true ! 
And  then  we  will  no  more  be  racked 
With   inward  striving,  and  demand 
Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 
Their  stupefying  power, 
Ah,  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call  I 


358    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  vague  and  forlorn. 
From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  upborne 
As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land. 
Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes  and  convey 
A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only — but  this  is  rare — 
When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 
When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 
Of  the  interminable  hours. 
Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 
When  our  world-deafened  ear 
Is  by  the  tones  of  a  loved  voice  caressed, — 
A  bolt  is  shot  back  somewhere  in  our  breast, 
And  a  lost  pulse  of   feeling  stirs  again. 
The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies  plain. 
And  what  we  mean,  we  say,  and  what  we  would, 
we  know. 

A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow. 
And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 
The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the  breeze. 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 

Wherein  he  doth   forever  chase 

The  flying  and  elusive  phantom,  rest. 

An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 

And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast; 

And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 

The  hills  where  his  life  rose. 

And  the  sea  where  it  goes. 


WILLIAM   (JOHNSON)   CORY   (1823-1892) 

Heraclitus 

nPHEY  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you  were  dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears  to 
shed. 
I  wept  as  I  remember'd  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down  the  sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  grey  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at  rest. 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales,  awake ; 
For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot  take. 


COVENTRY  PATMORE  359 

Remember 

"VrOU  come  not.  as  aforetime,  to  the  headstone  every  day, 
And  I,  who  died,  I  do  not  chide  because,  my  friend,  you 
play; 
Only,  in  playing,  think  of  him  who  once  was  kind  and  dear. 
And  if  you  see  a  beauteous  thing,  just  say,  he  is  not  here. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE   (1823-1896) 

JV  inter 

T    singularly  moved 

5  To  love  the  lovely  that  are  not  beloved. 
Of  all  the  Seasons,  most 
Love  Winter,  and  to  trace 

The  sense  of  the  Trophonian  pallor  on  her  face. 
It  is  not  death,  but  plenitude  of  peace ; 
And  the  dim  cloud  that  does  the  world  enfold 
Hath  less  the  characters  of  dark  and  cold 
Than  warmth  and  light  asleep, 
And  correspondent  breathing  seems  to  keep 
With  the  infant  harvest,  breathing  soft  below 
Its  eider  coverlet  of  snow. 
Nor  is  in  field  or  garden  anything 
But,  duly  look'd  into,  contains  serene 
The  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  in  the  Spwng, 
And  evidence  of  Summer  not  yet  seen. 
On  every  chance-mild  day 
That  visits  the  moist  shaw, 
The  honeysuckle,  'sdaining  to  be  crost 
In  urgence  of  sweet  life  by  sleet  or  frost, 
'Voids  the  time's  law 
With  still  increase 

Of  leaflet  new,  and  little,  wandering  spray; 
Often,  in   sheltering  brakes. 
As  one  from  rest  disturb'd  in  the  first  hour, 
Primrose  or  violet  bewilder'd  wakes, 
And  deems  'tis  time  to  flower; 
Though  not  a  whisper  of  her  voice  he  hear, 
The  buried  bulb  does  know 
The  signals  of  the  year, 
And  hails  far  Summer  with  his  lifted  spear. 
The  gorse-field  dark,  by  sudden,  gold  caprice, 
Turns,  here  and  there,  into  a  Jason's  fleece ; 
Lilies,  that  soon  in  Autumn  slipp'd  their  gowns  of  green, 
And  vanish'd  into  earth. 

And  came  again,  ere  Autumn  died,  to  birth. 
Stand  full-array'd,  amidst  the  wavering  shower, 
And  perfect  for  the  Summer,  less  the  flower ; 


360    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

In  nook  of  pale  or  crevice  of  crude  bark, 

Thou  canst  not  miss, 

If  close  thou  spj',  to  mark 

The  ghostly  chrysalis, 

That,  if  thou  touch  it,  stirs  in  its  dream  dark; 

And  the  flush'd  Robin,  in  the  evenings  hoar, 

Does  of  Love's  Day,  as  if  he  saw  it,  sing; 

But  sweeter  yet  than  dream  or  song  of  Summer  or  Spring 

Are  Winter's  sometimes  smiles,  that  seem  to  well 

From  infancy  ineffable; 

Her  wandering,  languorous  gaze, 

So  unfamiliar,  so  without  amaze. 

On  the  elemental,  chill  adversity. 

The  uncomprehended  rudeness ;  and  her  sigh 

And  solemn,  gathering  tear. 

And  look  of  exile  from  some  great  repose,  the  sphere 

Of  ether,  moved  by  ether  only,  or 

By  something  still  more  tranquil. 

The   Toys 

IVTY  little  Son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyed, 
I  struck  him  and  dismissed 
With  hard  words  and  unkissed, 
— His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed. 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep. 
With  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan. 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 
For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-veined  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach. 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  bluebells. 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  careful  art. 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  prayed 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said : 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death. 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How   weakly  understood 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  361 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 

Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

"I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

Departure 

TT  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways  I 

Do  you,  that  have  naught  other  to  lament. 
Never,  my  Love,   repent 
Of  how,  that  July  afternoon. 
You  went. 

With  sudden,  unintelligible  phrase, 
And   frightened  eye, 
Upon  your  journey  of  so  many  days 
Without  a  single  kiss,  or  a  good-bye? 
I  knew,  indeed,  that  you  were  parting  soon ; 
And  so  we  sate,  within  the  low  sun's  rays, 
You  whispering  to  me,  for  your  voice  was  weak, 
Your  harrowing  praise. 
Well,  it  was  well 
To  hear  you  such  things  speak. 
And  I  could  tell 

What  made  your  eyes  a  glowing  gloom  of  love, 
As  a  warm  South-wind  sombers  a  March  grove. 

And  it  was  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways 

To  turn  your  talk  on  daily  things,  my  Dear, 

Lifting  the  luminous,  pathetic  lash 

To  let  the  laughter  flash, 

Whilst  I  drew  near, 

Because  you  spoke  so  low  that  I  could  scarcely  hear. 

But  all  at  once  to  leave  me  at  the  last, 

More  at  the  wonder  than  the  loss  aghast, 

With    huddled,    unintelligible    phrase, 

And  frightened  eye, 

And  go  your  journey  of  all  days 

With  not  one  kiss,  or  a  good-bye, 

And  the  only  loveless  look  the  look  with  which  you  passed : 

'Twas  all  unlike  your  great  and  gracious  ways. 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM   (1824-1889) 

TPHESE  little  songs 

Found  here  and  there, 
Floating  in  air 
By  forest  and  lea, 


362    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Or  hill-side  heather, 
In  houses  and  throngs, 
Or  down  by  the  sea — 
Have  come  together, 
How  I  can't  tell :  .  .  . 
But  the  best  in  the  songs. 
Whatever  it  be, 
To  you,  and  to  me. 
And  to  no  one  belongs. 


The  Fairies 

TTP  the  airy  mountain. 

Down  tlie  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men ; 
Wee   folk,  good   folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owl's  feather  I 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home, 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide  foam; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  king  sits ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses : 

Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights. 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  lights. 
They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 


SYDNEY   DOBELL  363 

They  took  her  h'ghtly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side. 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk. 

Trooping   all   together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owl's  feather ! 


SYDNEY  DOBELL   (1824-1874) 
The  Orphan's  Song 

J  had  a  little  bird, 

I  took  it  from  the  nest; 
I  prest  it,  and  blest  it, 
And  nurst  it  in  my  breast. 

I  set  it  on  the  ground, 

I  danced  round  and  round. 

And  sang  about  it  so  cheerly. 

With  "Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 

And  oh  but  I  love  thee  dearly  1" 

I  make  a  little  feast 
Of  food  soft  and  sweet, 
I  hold  it  in  my  breast, 
And  coax  it  to  eat; 


364    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

I  pit,  and  I  pat. 

I  call  it  this  and  that. 

And  sing  about  it  so  cheerly, 

With  "Hey  my  little  bird^  and  ho  my  little  bird. 

And  oh  but  I  love  thee  dearly!" 

I  may  kiss,  I  may  sing, 
But  I  can't  make  it  feed, 
It  taketh  no  heed  _ 
Of  any  pleasant  thing. 

I  scolded,  and  I  socked. 
But  it  minded  not  a  whit. 
Its  little  mouth  was  locked. 
And  I  could  not  open  it. 

Tho'  with  pit,  and  with  pat. 

And  with  this,  and  with  that, 

I  sang  about  it  so  cheerly, 

With  "Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 

And  oh  but  I  love  thee  dearly !" 

But  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  room  was  at  rest. 
And  I  sat  all  alone 
With  my  birdie  in  my  breast, 

And  the  light  had  fled, 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard. 
Then  my  little  bird 
Lifted  up  its  head. 

And  the  little  mouth 

Loosed  its  sullen  pride. 

And   it  opened,   it  opened. 

With  a  yearning  strong   and   wide. 

Swifter  than  I  speak 
I  brought  it  food  once  more, 
But  the  poor  little  beak 
Was  locked  as  before. 

I  sat  down  again. 
And  not  a  creature  stirred, 
I  laid  the  little  bird 
Again  where  it  had  Iain ; 


SYDNEY    DOBELL  365 

And  again  when  nothing  stirred, 
And  not  a  word   I   said. 
Then  my  little  bird 
Lifted  up  its  head, 
And  the  little  beak 
Loosed  its  stubborn  pride, 
And  it  opened,  it  opened. 
With  a  yearning  strong  and  wide. 

It   lay  in   my  breast, 

It  uttered  no  cry, 

*Twas  famished,  'twas  famished. 

And  I  couldn't  tell  why. 

I  couldn't  tell  why. 

But  I  saw  that  it  would  die, 

For  all  that  I  kept  dancing  round  and  round, 

And  sing  above  it  so  cheerly, 

With  "Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird. 

And  oh  but  I  love  thee  dearly!" 

I  never  look  sad, 
I  hear  what  people  say, 
I  laugh  when  they  are  gay 
And  they  think  I  am  glad. 

My  tears  never  start, 
I  never  say  a  word. 
But  I  think  that  my  heart 
Is  like  that  little  bird. 

Every  day  I  read. 
And  I  sing,  and  I  play, 
But  thro'  the  long  day 
It  taketh  no  heed. 

It  taketh  no  heed 
Of  any  pleasant  thing, 
I  know  it  doth  not  read, 
I  know  it  doth  not  sing. 

With  my  mouth  I  read. 
With  my  hands  I  play. 
My  shut  heart  is  shut, 
Coax  it  how  you  may. 

You  may  coax  it  how  you  may 
While  the  day  is  broad  and  bright, 
But  in  the  dead  night 
When  the  guests  are  gone  away. 


36S    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  no  more  the  music  sweet 
Up  the  house  doth  pass. 
Nor  the  dancing  feet 
Shake  the  nursery  glass ; 

And  I've  heard  my  aunt 
Along  the  corridor, 
And  my  uncle  gaunt 
Lock  his  chamber  door; 

And  upon  the  stair 
All  is  hushed  and  still, 
And  the  last  wheel 
Is  silent  in  the  square ; 

And  the  nurses  snore, 
And  the  dim  sheets  rise  and  fall, 
And  the  lamplight's  on  the  wall, 
And  the  mouse  is  on  the  floor; 

And  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
Are  like  a  heavy  cloud, 
And  the  clock  ticks  loud, 
And  sounds  are  in  my  head ; 

And  little  Lizzie  sleeps 

Softb'  at  my  side. 

It  opens,  it  opens. 

With  a  yearning  strong  and  wide  I 

It  yearns  in  my  breast, 

It  utters  no  cry, 

'Tis   famished,  'tis  famished. 

And  I  feci  that  I  shall  die, 

I  feel  that  I  shall  die. 

And  none  will  know  why. 

Tho'  the  pleasant  life  is  dancing  round  and  round 

And  singing  about  me  so  cheerly. 

With  "Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 

And  oh  but  I  love  thee  dearly!" 


The  Ballad  of  Keith  of  Ravelston 

'T'HE  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 

That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine, 
"O  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  I" 


SYDNEY    DOBELL  367 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill, 

And  through  the  silver  meads; 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 
The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 

The  song  that  sang  she  I 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  beneath  the  thorn. 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  through  the  Monday  morn. 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring, 

His  belted  jewels  shine; 
O  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came. 

Comes  evening  down  the  glade. 
And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 

Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair, 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine ; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! 

1  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 
The  stile  is  lone  and  cold, 

The  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 
Says  naught  that  can  be  told. 

Yet,  stranger !  here,  from  year  to  year, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine ; 
O  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! 

Step  out  three  steps,  where  Andrew  stood — 

Why  blanch  thy  cheeks  for  fear? 
The  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 

'Tis  not  the  burn  I  hear  1 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine; 
O  Keith  of  Ravelston,  _ 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 


368    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI    (1828-1882) 
The  Blessed  Damozel 

'■""HE  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 

From  the  Rold  bar  of  Heaven ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seveu. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  sweetly  worn ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.  .  .  Yet  now,  and  in  this   place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  .  . 
Nothing:  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,   across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless   love's  acclaims, 
Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart- remembered  names; 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  369 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still   she  bowed  herself  and   stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She   spoke  through  the   still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet!     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

"I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"Have  not  I  prayed  in  Heaven? — on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight 

"We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine. 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod. 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God; 


370    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 
Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

"We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within    whose    secret   growth    the    Dove 

Is  sometimes   felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith   His   Name  audibly. 

"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow. 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alasl  we  two,  we  two,  thou  say'sti 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  vmity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

"We  two,"  she  said,  "will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is. 
With  her   five   handmaidens,   whose  names 

Are  five   sweet   symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"Circlewise   sit   they,   with  bound   locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded  ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth   white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To   fashion  the  birth-robes   for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"He  shall   fear,  haply,   and  be  dumb : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  check 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,   and   let  me   spea'' 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him   round   whom  all   sotds 

Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles : 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  371 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 

Thus  much  for  him  and  me : — 
Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

^^'ith   Love,   only  to  be, 
As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 

Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 
"All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 

The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  filled 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 

Ller  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres : 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.      (I  heard  her  tears.) 

TJie  So7inet 

A   sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument, — 
Memorial  from  tlie  Soul's  eternity 
To  one  dead  deathless  hour.     Look  that  it  be, 
Whether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 
Of  its  own  arduous   fulness   reverent: 
Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony. 
As  Day  or  Night  may  rule ;  and  let  Time  see 
Its  flowering  crest  impearled  and  orient. 
A  Sonnet  is  a  coin  :  its  face  reveals 
The  soul, — its  converse,  to  what  Power  'tis  due : — 
Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  appeals 
Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue. 
It  serve ;  or,  'mid  the  dark  wharf's  cavernous  breath, 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

Sonnets  from  "The  House  of  Life" 

IV 
LOVESIGHT 

■^X^'HEN  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 
^^     When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face  their  altar,   solemnize 
The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made  known? 


372    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
Thy  twilight-hidden   glimmering  visage  lies, 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own? 
O  love,  my  love!  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 
Nor  images  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening  slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of  Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 


HEART  S     HOPE 

By  what  word's  power,  the  key  of  paths  untrod, 

Shall  I  the  difficult  deeps  of  Love  explore, 

Till  parted  waves  of  Song  yield  up  the  shore 

Even  as  that  sea  which  Israel  crossed  dryshod? 

For  lo !  in  some  poor  rhythmic  period. 

Lady.  I  fain  would  tell  how  evermore 

Thy  soul  I  know  not  from  thy  body,  nor 

Thee  from  myself,  neither  our  love  from  God. 

Yea,  in  God's  name,  and  Love's,  and  thine,  would  I 

Draw  from  one  loving  heart  such  evidence 

As  to  all  hearts  all  things  shall  signify; 

Tender  as  dawn's  first  lull-fire,  and  intense 

As  instantaneous  penetrating  sense. 

In  Spring's  birth-hour,  of  other  Springs  gone  by. 


MID-RAPTURE 

Thou  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love ; 

Whose  kiss  seems  still  the  first ;  whose  summoning  eyes. 

Even  now,  as   for  our  love-world's  new  sunrise. 

Shed  very  dawn ;  whose  voice,  attuned  above 

All  modulation  of  the  deep-bowered  dove. 

Is  like  a  hand  laid  softly  on  the  soul ; 

Whose  hand  is  like  a  sweet  voice  to  control 

Those  worn  tired  brows  it  hath  the  keeping  of: — 

What  word  can  answer  to  thy  word, — what  gaze 

To  thine,  which  now  absorbs  within  its  sphere 

My  worshipping  face,  till  I  am  mirrored  there 

Light-circled  in  a  heaven  of  deep-drawn  rays? 

What  clasp,  wliat  kiss  mine  inmost  heart  can  prove, 

O  lovely  and  beloved,  O  my  love? 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  373 


THE  DARK   GLASS 

Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee: 

How  should  I  reach  so  far,  who  cannot  weigh 

To-morrow's  dower  by  page  of  yesterday? 

Shall  birth  and  death,  and  all  dark  names  that  be 

As  doors  and  windows  bared  to  some  loud  sea. 

Lash  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face  with  spray; 

And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love, — the  last  relay 

And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity? 

Lo!  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all? 

One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the  sand, — 

One  little  heart-flame   sheltered   in   his   hand. 

Yet  through  thine  eyes  he  grants  me  clearest  call 

And  veriest  touch  of  powers  primordial 

That  any  hour-girt  life   may  understand. 


BODY  S   BEAUTY 

Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve,) 

That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 

And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 

And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old, 

And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative. 

Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  web  she  can  weave, 

Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers :  for  where 

Is  he  not  found,  O  Lilith !  whom  shed  scent 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare? 

Lo  I  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 

Thy  spell  through  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck  bent, 

And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 

A  Superscription 

T  OOK  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have-been; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell; 
Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 
Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my  spell 
Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable. 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 
Mark  me,  how  still  I  am !    But  should  there  dart 


374    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  surprise 

Of  that  winged  Peace  which  hills  the  breath  of  sighs, — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  mc  smile,  and  turn  apart 

Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 

Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 

The  Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies,  from  the  French 
of  Francois  Villon,  1450 

*  I  ""ELL  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man. 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 

For  whose  sake  Abeilard,  I  ween, 
Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 

(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 

And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 
Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-j'ear  ? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 

With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 
Bertha  Broad  foot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — • 

And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 
At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 

Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord. 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year. 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

One  Girl  {A  Combination  from  ''Sappho") 

I 
T   IKE    the    sweet    apple    which    reddens    upon    the    topmost 
■"^         bough, 

A-top  on  the  topmost  twig, — which   the   pluckers    forgot, 
somehow, — 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  375 

Forgot  it  not,  nay,  but  got  it  not,  for  none  could  get  it  till 
now. 

II 

Like  the  wild  hyacinth  flower  which  on  the  hills  is  found, 
Which  the  passing   feet  of  the   shepherds   for  ever  tear  and 

wound. 
Until  the  purple  blossom  is  trodden  into  the  ground. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH   (1828-1909) 
Love  in  the  Valley 

TJNDER  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  green-sward. 

Couched  with  her  arms  behind  her  golden  head, 
Knees  and  tresses  folded  to  slip  and  ripple  idly. 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  an  arm  beneath  her. 

Press  her  parting  lips  as  her  waist  I  gather  slow. 
Waking  in  amazement  she  could  not  but  embrace  me : 

Then  would  she  hold  me  and  never  let  me  go? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  and  wayward  as  the  swallow, 

Swift  as  the  swallow  along  the  river's  light 
Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  mirrored  winglets, 

Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her  flight, 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  that  leaps  among  the  pine-tops, 

Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set  of  sun, 
She  whom  I  love  is  hard  to  catch  and  conquer, 

Hard,  but  O  the  glory  of  the  winning  were  she  won ! 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laughing  mirror, 

Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often  she  thinks,  were  this  wild  thing  wedded. 

More  love  should  I  have,  and  much  less  care. 
When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  lighted  mirror. 

Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her  curls. 
Often  she  thinks,  were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 

I  should  miss  but  one  for  many  boys  and  girls. 

Heartless  she  is  as  the  shadow  in  the  meadows. 

Flying  to  the  hills  on  a  blue  and  breezy  noon. 
No,  she  is  athirst  and  drinking  up  her  wonder: 

Earth  to  her  is  young  as  the  slip  of  the  new  moon. 
Deals  she  an  unkindness,  'tis  but  her  rapid  measure. 

Even  as  in  a  dance ;  and  her  smile  can  heal  no  less : 
Like  the  swinging  May-cloud  that  pelts  the  flowers  with  hail- 
stones 

Off  a  sunny  border,  she  was  made  to  bruise  and  bless. 


376    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl  sweeping 

Wavy  in  the  dusk  lit  by  one  large  star. 
Lone  on  the  fir-branch,  his  rattle-note  unvaried, 

Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,  spins  the  brown  eve-jar. 
Darker  grows  the  valley,  more  and  more  forgetting: 

So  were  it  with  me  if  forgetting  could  be  willed. 
Tell  the  grassy  hollow  that   holds  the  bubbling  well-spring, 

Tell  it  to  forget  the  source  that  keeps  it  filled. 

Stepping  down  the  hill  with  her  fair  companions, 

Arm  in  arm,  all  against  the  raying  West, 
Boldly  she  sings,  to  the  merry  tune  she  marches ; 

Brave  in  her  shape,  and  sweeter  unpossessed. 
Sweeter,  for  she  is  what  my  heart  first  awaking 

Whispered  the  world  was  ;  morning  light  is  she. 
Love  that  so  desires  would  fain  keep  her  changeless ; 

Fain  would  fling  the  net,  and  fain  have  her  free. 

Happy,  happy  time,  when  the  white  star  hovers 

Low  over  dim  fields  fresh  with  bloomy  dew, 
Near  the  face  of  dawn,  that  draws  athwart  the  darkness, 

Threading  it  with  color,  like  yewberries  the  yew. 
Thicker  crowd  the  shades  as  the  grave  East  deepens 

Glowing,  and  with  crimson  a  long  cloud  swells. 
Maiden  still  the  morn  is  ;  and  strange  she  is,  and  secret ; 

Strange  her  eyes ;  her  cheeks  are  cold  as  cold  sea-shells. 

Sunrays,  leaning  on  our  southern  hills  and  lighting 

Wild  cloud-mountains  that  drag  the  hills  along, 
Oft  ends  the  day  of  your  shifting  brilliant  laughter 

Chill  as  a  dull  face  frowning  on  a  song. 
Ay,  but  shows  the  South-west  a  ripple-feathered  bosom 

Blown  to  silver  while  the  clouds  are  shaken  and  ascend 
Scaling  the  mid-heavens  as  they  stream,  there  comes  a  sunset 

Rich,  deep  like  love  in  beauty  without  end. 

When  at  dawn  she  sighs,  and  like  an  infant  to  the  window 

Turns  grave  eyes  craving  light,  released  from  dreams, 
Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  white  water-lily 

Bursting  out  of  bud  in  havens  of  the  streams. 
When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck  to  ankle 

In  her  long  nightgown  sweet  as  boughs  of  May, 
Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  tall  garden-lily 

Pure  from  the  night,  and  splendid  for  the  day. 

Mother  of  the  dews,  dark  eye-lashed  twilight, 

Low-lidded  twilight,  o'er  the  valley's  brim. 
Rounding  on  thy  breast  sings  the  dew-delighted  skylark, 

Clear  as  though  the  dewdrops  had  their  voice  in  him. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  377 

Hidden  where  the  rose-flush  drinks  the  rayless  planet, 
Fountain-full  he  pours  the  spraying   fountain-showers. 

Let  me  hear  her  laughter,  I  would  have  her  ever 
Cool  as  dew  in  twilight,  the  lark  above  the  flowers. 

All  the  girls  are  out  with  their  baskets  for  the  primrose; 

Up  lanes,  woods  through,  they  troop  in  joyful  bands. 
My  sweet  leads :  she  knows  not  why,  but  now  she  loiters, 

Eyes  the  bent  anemones,  and  hangs  her  hands. 
Such  a  look  will  tell  that  the  violets  are  peeping, 

Coming  the  rose :  and  unaware  a  cry 
Springs  in  her  bosom  for  odours  and  for  colour, 

Covert  and  the  nightingale ;  she  knows  not  why. 

Kerchiefed  head  and  chin  she  darts  between  her  tulips, 

Streaming  like  a  willow  gray  in  arrowy  rain : 
Some  bend  beaten  cheek  to  gravel,  and  their  angel 

She  will  be;  she  lifts  them,  and  on  she  speeds  again. 
Black  the  driving  rain  cloud  breasts  the  iron  gateway: 

She  is  forth  to  cheer  a  neighbour  lacking  mirth. 
So  when  sky  and  grass  met  rolling  dumb  for  thunder 

Saw  I  once  a  white  dove,  sole  light  of  earth. 

Prim  little  scholars  are  the  flowers  of  her  garden, 

Trained  to  stand  in  rows,  and  asking  if  they  please. 
I  might  love  them  well  but  for  loving  more  the  wild  ones : 

O  my  wild  ones  I  they  tell  me  more  than  these. 
You,  my  wild  one,  you  tell  of  honied  field-rose, 

Violet,  blushing  eglantine  in  life;  and  even  as  they. 
They  by  the  wayside  are  earnest  of  your  goodness, 

You  are  of  life's,  on  the  banks  that  line  the  way. 

Peering  at  her  chamber  the  white  crowns  the  red  rose, 

Jasmine  winds  the  porch  with  stars  two  and  three. 
Parted  is  the  window;  she  sleeps;  the  starry  jasmine 

Breathes  a  falling  breath  that  carries  thoughts  of  me. 
Sweeter  unpossessed,  have  I  said  of  her  my  sweetest? 

Not  while  she  sleeps:  while  she  sleeps  the  jasmine  breathes. 
Luring  her  to  love:  she  sleeps;  the  starry  jasmine 

Bears  me  to  her  pillow  under  white  rose-wreaths. 

Yellow  with  birdfoot-trefoil  are  the  grass-glades; 

Yellow  with  cinquefoil  of  the  dew-gray  leaf; 
Yellow  with  stonecrop ;  the  moss-mounds  are  yellow; 

Blue-necked  the  wheat  sways,  yellowing  to  the  sheaf. 
Green-yellow  bursts  from  the  copse  the  laughing  yaffle ; 

Sharp  as  a  sickle  is  the  edge  of  shade  and  shine: 
Earth  in  her  heart  laughs  looking  at  the  heavens. 

Thinking  of  the  harvest:  I  look  and  think  of  mine. 


378    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

This  I  may  know :  her  dressing  and  undressing 

Such  a  change  of  light  shows  as  when  the  skies  in  sport 
Shift  from  cloud  to  moonlight;  or  edging  over  thunder 

Slips  a  ray  of  sun;  or  sweeping  into  port 
White  sails  furl ;  or  on  the  ocean  borders 

White  sails  lean  along  the  waves  leaping  green. 
Visions  of  her  shower  before  me,  but  from  eyesight 

Guarded  she  would  be  like  the  sun  were  she  seen. 

Front  door  and  back  of  the  mossed  old  farmhouse 

Open  with  the  morn,  and  in  a  breezy  link 
Freshly  sparkles  garden  to  stripe-shadowed  orchard. 

Green  across  a  rill  where  on  sand  the  minnows  wink. 
Busy  in  the  grass  the  early  sun  of  summer 

Swarms,  and  the  blackbird's  mellow  fluting  notes 
Call  my  darling  up  with  round  and  roguish  challenge : 

Quaintest,  richest  carol  of  all  the  singing  throats  I 

Cool  was  the  woodside ;  cool  as  her  white  dairy 

Keeping   sweet   the   cream-pan ;    and   there  the  boys    from 
school, 
Cricketing  below,  rushed  brown  and  red  with  sunshine ; 

O  the  dark  translucence  of  the  deep-eyed  cool! 
Spying  from  the  farm,  herself  she  fetched  a  pitcher 

Full  of  milk,  and  tilted  for  each  in  turn  the  beak. 
Then  a  little  fellow,  mouth  up  and  on  tiptoe. 

Said,  "I  will  kiss  you" :  she  laughed  and  leaned  her  cheek. 

Doves  of  the  fir-wood  walling  high  our  red  roof 

Through  the  long  noon  coo,  crooning  through  the  coo. 
Loose  droop  the  leaves,  and  down  the  sleepy  roadway 

Sometimes  pipes  a  chaffinch ;  loose  droops  the  blue. 
Cows  flap  a  slow  tail  knee-deep  in  the  river, 

Breathless,  given  up  to  sun  and  gnat  and  fly. 
Nowhere  is  she  seen;  and  if  I  see  her  nowhere. 

Lightning  may  come,  straight  rains  and  tiger  sky. 

O  the  golden  sheaf,  the  rustling  treasure-armful ! 

O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  interlaced ! 
O  the  treasure-tresses  one  another  over 

Nodding !     O  the  girdle  slack  about  the  waist ! 
Slain  are  the  poppies  that  shot  their  random  scarlet 

Quick  amid  the  wheat-ears :  wound  about  the  waist, 
Gathered,  see  these  brides  of  Earth  one  blush  of  ripeness ! 

O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  interlaced. 

Large  and  smoky  red  the  sun's  cold  disk  drops, 
Clipped  by  naked  hills,  on  violet  shaded  snow : 

Eastward  large  and  still  lights  up  a  bower  of  moonrise, 
Whence  at  her  leisure  steps  the  moon  aglow. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  379 

Nightlong  on  black  print-branches  our  bccch-tree 

Gazes  in  this  whiteness  :  nightlong  could  I. 
Here  may  life  on  death  or  death  on  life  be  painted. 

Let  me  clasp  her  soul  to  know  she  cannot  die ! 

Gossips  count  her  faults ;  they  scour  a  narrow  chamber 

Where  there  is  no  window,  read  not  heaven  or  her. 
"When  she  was  a  tiny,"  one  aged  woman  quavers, 

Plucks  at  my  heart  and  leads  me  by  the  ear. 
Faults  she  had  once  as  she  learned  to  run  and  tumbled : 

Faults  of  feature  some  see,  beauty  not  complete. 
Yet,  good  gossips,  beauty  that  makes  holy 

Earth  and  air,  may  have  faults   from  head  to  feet. 

Hither  she  comes ;  she  comes  to  me ;  she  lingers. 

Deepens  her  brown  eyebrows,  while  in  new  surprise 
High  rise  the  lashes  in  wonder  of  a  stranger; 

Yet  am  I  the  light  and  living  of  her  eyes. 
Something  friends  have  told  her  fills  her  heart  to  brimming, 

Nets  her  in  her  blushes,  and  wounds  her,  and  tames. — 
Sure  of  her  haven,  O  like  a  dove  alighting, 

Arms  up,  she  dropped :  our  souls  were  in  our  names. 

Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  white  frost  sunrise. 

Yellow  oats  and  brown  wheat,  barley  pale  as  rye. 
Long  since  your  sheaves  have  yielded  to  the  thresher. 

Felt  the  girdle  loosened,  seen  the  tresses  fly. 
Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  blood-red  sunset. 

Swift   with   the   to-morrow,   green-winged   Spring  I 
Sing  from  the  South-west,  bring  her  back  the  truants. 

Nightingale  and  swallow,  song  and  dipping  wing. 

Soft  new  beech-leaves,  up  to  beamy  April 

Spreading  bough  on  bough  a  primrose  mountain,  you. 
Lucid  in  the  moon,  raise  lilies  to  the  skyfields. 

Youngest  green  transfused  in  silver  shining  through: 
Fairer  than  the  lily,  than  the  wild  white  cherry: 

Fair  as  in  image  my  seraph  love  appears 
Borne  to  me  by  dreams  when  dawn  is  at  my  eyelids: 

Fair  as  in  the  flesh  she  swims  to  me  on  tears. 

Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  heaven, 

I  would  speak  my  heart  out :  heaven  is  my  need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like_  the  dogwood, 

Flashing  like  the  whitebeam,  swaying  like  the  reed. 
Flushing  like  the  dogwood  crimson  in  October ; 

Streaming  like  the  flag-reed  South-west  blown ; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  sudden-lighted  whitebeam: 

All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven  alone. 


380    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
Lucifer  in  Starlight 

^^N  a  starr'd  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 

^^  Tired  of  his  dark  dominion  swung  the  fiend 

Above  the  rolHng  ball  in  cloud  part  screen'd, 
Where  sinners  hugg'd  their  sceptre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 

And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  lean'd, 

Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Afric's  sands  careen'd. 
Now  the  black  planet  shadow'd  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  thru  wider  zones  that  prick'd  his  scars 

With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He  reach'd  the  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  look'd,  and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  march'd,  rank  on  rank, 

The  army  of  unalterable  law. 

From  "Modern  Love" 


JJ  Y  this  he  knew  she  wept  with  waking  eyes : 

That,  at  his  hand's  light  quiver  by  her  head, 
The  strange  low  sobs  that  shook  their  common  bed 
Were  called  into  her  with  a  sharp  surprise. 
And  strangled  mute,  like  little  gaping  snakes, 
Dreadfully  venomous  to  him.     She  lay 
Stone-still,  and  the  long  darkness  flowed  away 
With  muffled  pulses.     Then  as  midnight  makes 
Her  giant  heart  of  Memory  and  Tears 
Drink  the  pale*  drug  of  silence,  and  so  beat 
Sleep's  heavy  measure,  they  from  head  to  feet 
Were  moveless,  looking  through  their  dead  black  years, 
By  vain  regret  scrawled  over  the  blank  wall. 
Like  sculptured  effigies  they  might  be  seen 
Upon  their  marriage-tomb,  the  sword  between ; 
Each  wishing  for  the  sword  that  severs  all. 

XLI 

How  many  a  thing  which  we  cast  to  the  ground, 
When  others  pick  it  up  becomes  a  gem  I 
We  grasp  at  all  the  wealth  it  is  to  them ; 
And  by  reflected  light  its  worth  is  found. 
Yet  for  us  still  'tis  nothing !  and  that  zeal 
Of  false  appreciation  quickly  fades. 
This  truth  is  little  known  to  human  shades, 
How  rare  from  their  own  instinct  'tis  to  feel  I 
They  waste  the  soul  with  spurious  desire. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  381 

That  is  not  the  ripe  flame  upon  the  bough. 
We  two  have  taken  up  a  Hfeless  vow 
To  rob  a  hving  passion :  dust  for  fire ! 
Madam  is  grave,  and  eyes  the  clock  that  tells 
Approaching  midnight.     We  have  struck  despair 
Into  two  hearts.     O,  look  we  like  a  pair 
Who  for  fresh  nuptials  joyfully  yield  all  else? 

XLVII 

We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  sky. 

And  in  the  osier-isle  we  heard  their  noise. 

We  had  not  to  look  back  on  summer  joys, 

Or  forward  to  a  summer  of  bright  dye : 

But  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth 

Our  spirits  grew  as  we  went  side  by  side. 

The  hour  became  her  husband  and  my  bride. 

Love  that  had  robbed  us  so,  thus  blessed  our  dearth.! 

The  pilgrims  of  the  year  waxed  very  loud 

In  multitudinous   chatterings,  as  the  flood 

Full  brown  came  from  the  West,  and  like  pale  blood 

Expanded  to  the  upper  crimson  cloud. 

Love  that  had  robbed  us  of  immortal  things. 

This  little  moment  mercifully  gave, 

Where  I  had  seen  across  the  twilight  wave 

The  swan  sail  with  her  young  beneath  her  wings. 

XLIX 

He  found  her  by  the  ocean's  moaning  verge. 
Nor  any  wicked  change  in  her  discerned ; 
And  she  believed  his  old  love  had  returned, 
Which  was  her  exultation,  and  her  scourge. 
She  took  his  hand,  and  walked  with  him,  and  seemed 
The  wife  he  sought,  though  shadow-like  and  dry. 
She  had  one  terror,  lest  her  heart  should  sigh, 
And  tell  her  loudly  she  no  longer  dreamed. 
She  dared  not  say,  "This  is  my  breast :  look  in." 
But  there's  a  strength  to  help  the  desperate  weak. 
That  night  he  learned  how  silence  best  can  speak 
The  awful  things  when  Pity  pleads  for  Sin. 
About  the  middle  of  the  night  her  call 
Was  heard,  and  he  came  wondering  to  the  bed. 
"Now  kiss  me,  dear!  it  may  be,  now!"  she  said. 
Lethe  had  passed  those  lips,  and  he  knew  all. 

L 

Thus  piteously  Love  closed  what  he  begat: 

The  union  of  this  ever-diverse  pair! 

These  two  were  rapid  falcons  in  a  snare. 

Condemned  to  do  the  flitting  of  the  bat. 

Lovers  beneath  the  singing  sky  of  May, 

They  wandered  once ;  clear  as  the  dew  on  flowers : 


382    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

But  they  fed  not  on  the  advancing  hours : 
Their  hearts  held  cravings  for  the  buried  day. 
Then  each  applied  to  each  that  fatal  knife, 
Deep  questioning,  which  probes  to  endless  dole. 
Ah,  what  a  dusty  answer  gets  the  soul 
When  hot  for  certainties  in  this  our  life! — 
In  tragic  hints  here  see  what  evermore 
Moves  dark  as  yonder  midnight  ocean's  force, 
Thumping  like  ramping  hosts  of  warrior  horse, 
To  throw  that  faint  thin  line  upon  the  shore  1 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI   (1830-1894) 

A  Birthday 

ly/TY  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 

Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot ; 
My  heart  is  like  an  apple-tree 

Whose  boughs  arc  bent  with  thickest  fruit; 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down, 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes ; 
Carve  it  in  doves,  and  pomegranates. 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes ; 
W^ork  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes. 

In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys ; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Up-HUl 

"r\OES  the  road  wind  up-hi!I  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  tlie  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 
From  morn  till  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 


CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI  383 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

Song 

■^l/'HEN  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 
Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress-tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember. 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain : 
And   dreaming   through   the   twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember 

And  haply  may  forget. 

Rest 

f\  earth,  lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes  : 

^"^   Seal  her  sweet  eyes  weary  of  watching,  Earth ; 

Lie  close  around  her ;  leave  no  room  for  mirth 
With  its  harsh  laughter,  nor  for  sound  of  sighs. 
She  hath  no  questions,  she  hath  no  replies. 

Hush'd  in  and  curtain'd  with  a  blessed  dearth 

Of  all  that  irk'd  her  from  the  hour  of  birth  ; 
W^ith   stillness  that  is   almost   Paradise. 
Darkness  more  clear  than  noonday  holdeth  her, 

Silence  more  musical  than  any  song; 
Even  her  very  heart  has  ceased  to  stir : 
Until  the  morning  of  Eternity 
Her  rest  shall  not  begin  nor  end,  but  be; 

And  when  she  wakes  she  will  not  think  it  long. 

Remember 

|>  EMEMBER  me   when   I  am   gone  away. 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land, 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand. 
Nor  I  half  turn  to  go,  yet  turning  stay. 


384    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSB 

Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by  day 
You  tell  nie  of  our  future  that  you  plann'dl 
Only  remember  me ;  you  understand 

It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then 'or  pray. 

Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve: 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 

Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 

THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN  (1830-1897) 

My  Garden 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot  I 
■^^  Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 
Ferned  grot — 

The  veriest  school 
Of  peace ;  and  yet  the  fool 
Contends  that  God  is  not — 
Not  God  !  in  gardens  !  when  the  eve  is  cool? 
Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign  : 
'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 

LEWIS  CARROLL  (Pseud,  of  C.  L.  Dodgson)    (1832-1898) 
Jabberwocky 

'  ''T'WAS  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 

Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe; 
All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves. 
And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 

"Beware  the  Jabberwock,  my  son ! 

The  jaws  that  bite,  the  claws  that  catch! 
Beware  the  Jubjub  bird,  and  shun 

The  frumious  Bandersnatch  !" 

He  took  his  vorpal  sword  in  hand : 
Long  time  the  manxome  foe  he  sought — 

So  rested  he  by  the  tum-tum  tree, 
And  stood  awhile  in  thought. 

And  as  in  uf!ish  thought  he  stood, 
The  Jabberwock,  with  eyes  of   flame. 

Came  w^hiffling  through  the  tulgey  wood, 
And  burbled  as  it  came  I 

One,  two  !    One,  two  1    And  through  and  througf 
The  vorpal  blade  went  snicker-snack ! 


SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD  385 

He  left  it  dead,  and  with  its  head 
He  went  gakimphing  back. 

"And  hast  thou  slain  the  Jabberwock? 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  beamish  boy  I 
O  frabjous  day!     Callooh  1     Callayl" 

He  chortled  in  his  joy. 

'Twas  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 

Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe ; 
All  mimsy  were  the  borogroves, 

And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 


SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD   (1832-1904) 
We  Are  the  Voices  of  the  JFhisper'uig  JVind 

"\X^E  are  the  voices  of  the  wandering  wind, 
''     Which  moan  for  rest  and  rest  can  never  find; 
Lo !  as  the  wind  is,  so  is  mortal  life, 
A  moan,  a  sigh,  a  sob,  a  storm,  a  strife. 

Wherefore  and  whence  we  are  ye  cannot  know, 
Nor  where  life  springs  nor  whither  life  doth  go ; 
We  are  as  ye  are,  ghosts  from  the  inane, 
What  pleasure  have  we  of  our  changeful  pain? 

What  pleasure  hast  thou  of  thy  changeful  bliss? 
Nay,  if  love  lasted,  there  were  joy  in  this; 
But  life's  way  is  the  wind's  way,  all  these  things. 
Are  but  brief  voices  breathed  on  shifting  strings. 

JAMES  THOMSON  (1834-1882) 
From   "The  City   of  Dreadful  Night" 

TpHE  chambers  of  the  mansions  of  my  heart. 
In  every  one  whereof  thine  image  dwells. 
Are  black  with  grief  eternal  for  thy  sake. 

The  inmost  oratory  of  my  soul, 
Wherein  thou  ever  dwellest  quick  or  dead, 
Is  black  with  grief  eternal  for  thy  sake. 

I  kneel  beside  thee  and  I  clasp  the  cross, 
With  eyes  forever  fixed  upon  that  face. 
So  beautiful  and  dreadful  in  its  calm. 


386    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

I  kneel  here  patient  as  thou  liest  there ; 
As  patient  as  a  statue  carved  in  stone, 
Of  adoration  and  eternal  grief. 

While  thou  dost  not  awake  I  cannot  move ; 
And  something  tells  me  thou  wilt  never  wake, 
And  I  alive  feel  turning  into  stone. 

The  Vine 

TPHE  wine  of  Love  is  music, 

And  the  feast  of  Love  is  song: 
And  when  Love  sits  down  to  the  banquet, 
Love  sits  long: 

Sits  long  and  arises  drunken. 

But  not  with  the  feast  and  the  wine ; 

He  reeleth  with  his  own  heart. 
That  great,  rich  Vine. 

Give  a  Man  a  Horse  He  Can  Ride 

^^IVE  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride, 
^■^   Give  a  man  a  boat  he  can  sail ; 
And  his  rank  and  wealth,  his  strength  and  health 
Nor  sea  nor  shore  shall  fail. 

Give  a  man  a  pipe  he  can  smoke, 

Give  a  man  a  book  he  can  read ; 
And  his  home  is  bright  with  a  calm  delight, 

Though  the  rooms  be  poor  indeed. 

Give  a  man  a  girl  he  can  love, 

As  L  O  my  Love,  love  thee ; 
And  his  hand  is  great  with  the  pulse  of  Fate, 

At  home,  on  land,  on  sea. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS   (1834-1896) 

Prelude  to  "The  Earthly  Paradise" 

f\^  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 

I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears. 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years. 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  387 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die, — 
Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray. 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered. 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate. 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay. 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did  show, 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row. 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is. 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be : 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Love  is  Enough 

T   OVE  is  enough:  though  the  world  be  a-waning. 

And  the  woods  have  no  voice  but  the  voice  of  complaining, 

Though  the  sky  be  too  dark  for  dim  eyes  to  discover 
The  gold-cups  and  daisies  fair  blooming  thereunder. 
Though  the  hills  be  held  shadows,  and  the  sea  a  dark  wonder, 

And  this  day  draw  a  veil  over  all  deeds  pass'd  over, 
Yet  their  hands  shall  not  tremble,  their  feet  shall  not  falter; 
The  wind  shall  not  weary,  the  fear  shall  not  alter 

These  lips  and  these  eyes  of  the  loved  and  the  lover. 


388    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  Nyviph's  Song  to  Hylas,  from  "The 
Life  and  Death  of  Jason'* 

T  know  a  little  garden-close 

Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose. 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might 
From  dewy  dawn  to  dewy  night. 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

And  though  within  it  no  birds  sing, 
And  though  no  pillared  house  is  there. 
And  though  the  apple  boughs  are  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,  would  to  God, 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod. 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before ! 

There  comes  a  murmur  from  the  shore, 
And  in  the  place  two  fair  streams  are. 
Drawn  from  the  purple  hills  afar, 
Drawn  down  unto  the  restless  sea ; 
The  hills  whose  flowers  ne'er  fed  the  bee. 
The  shore  no  ship  has  ever  seen, 
Still  beaten  by  the  billows  green. 
Whose  murmur  comes  unceasingly 
Unto  the  place  for  which  I  cry. 

For  which  I  cry  both  day  and  night. 
For  which  I  let  slip  all  delight, 
That  maketh  me  both  deaf  and  blind, 
Careless  to  win,  unskilled  to  find. 
And  quick  to  lose  what  all  men  seek. 

Yet  tottering  as  I  am,  and  weak, 

Still  have  I  left  a  little  breath 

To  seek  within  the  jaws  of  death 

An  entrance  to  that  happy  place; 

To  seek  the  unforgotten  face 

Once  seen,  once  kissed,  once  reft  from  me 

Anigh  the  murmuring  of  the  sea. 

Song  of  Orpheus,  from  "The  Life  and 
Death  of  Jason'* 

C\  surely  now  the  fisherman 

^^   Draws  homeward  through  the  water  wan 

Across  the  bay  we  know  so  well, 

And  in  the  sheltered  chalky  dell 

The  shepherd  stirs  :  and  now  afield 


JOHN  LIECESTER  WARREN,  LORD  DE  TABLEY    389 

They  drive  the  team,  with  white  wand  peeled, 
Muttering  across  the  barley-head 
At  daily  toil  and  dreary-head. 

And  midst  them  all,  perchance,  my  love 

Is  waking,  and  doth  gently  move 

And  stretch  her  soft  arms  out  to  me. 

Forgetting  thousand  leagues  of  sea; 

And  now  her  body  I  behold, 

Unhidden  but  by  hair  of  gold, 

And  now  tlie  silver  waters  kiss. 

The  crown  of  all  delight  and  bliss. 

And  now  I  see  her  bind  her  hair 

And  don  upon  her  raiment  fair, 

And  now  before  the  altar  stand. 

With  incense  in  her  outstretched  hand. 
To  supplicate  the  Gods  for  me; 
Ah !  one  day  landing  from  the  sea, 
Amid  the  maidens  shall  I  hear 
Her  voice  in  praise,  and  see  her  near, 
Holding  the  gold-wrapt  laurel  crown, 
'Midst  of  the  shouting,  wondering  town! 


JOHN  LEICESTER  WARREN,  LORD  DE  TABLEY 

(1835-1895) 

From  "Orestes'' 

T   ET  us  go  up  and  look  him  in  the  face — 
We  are  but  as  he  made  us  ;  the  disgrace 
Of  this,  our  imperfection,  is  his  own — 
And  unabashed  in  that  fierce  stare  and  Glaze 
Front  him  and  say, 
"We  come  not  to  atone. 
To   cringe   and   moan : 
God,  vindicate  thy  way. 
Erase  the  staining  sorrow  we  have  known, 
Thou,  whom  ill  things  obey; 
And  give  our  clay 

Some  master  bliss  imperial  as  thine  own : 
Or  wipe  us  quite  away. 
Far  from  the  ray  of  thine  eternal  throne. 
Dream  not  we  love  this  sorrow  of  our  breath, 
Hope  not  we  wince  or  palpitate  at  death ; 
Slay  us,  for  thine  is  nature  and  thy  slave : 
Draw  down  her  clouds  to  be  our  sacrifice, 
And  heap  unmeasured  mountain  for  our  grave, 
With  peaks  of  fire  and  ice. 


390    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Flicker  one  cord  of  lightning,  north  to  south. 

And  mix  in  awful  glories  wood  and  cloud; 

We  shall  have  rest,  and  find 

Illimitable   darkness    for   our   shroud ; 

We  shall  have  peace,  then,  surely,  when  thy  mouth 

Breathes  us  away  into  the  darkness  blind, 

Then  only  kind. 

From  "Hymn  to  Astarte" 

"^nyHAT  foreland  fledged  with  myrrh, 

*         Vocal  with  myriad  bees, 
What  pine-sequestered  spur, 
What  lone  declivities, 

Will  draw  thee  to  descend. 
Creation's  cradle-friend? 

The  sun   feeds  at  thy  smiles, 

The  wan  moon  glows  thereby. 
The  daedal  ocean  isles 
Terraced  in  rosemary, 

The  brushwood  in  the  bed 
Of  the  dry  torrent  head. 

The  rolling  river  brink 

With  plumy  sedges  grey, 
The   ford   where    foxes   drink, 
The  creek  where  others  play — 
Year  upwards — all  of  them — 
To  grasp  thy  raiment's  hem. 

SIR  WILLIAM  SCHWENK  GILBERT   (1836-1911) 
The  Yarn  of  the  "Nancy  Bell" 

jnpWAS  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast 

•*■        From  Deal  to  Ramsgate  span, 
That  I  found  alone,  on  a  piece  of  stone, 

An  elderly  naval  man. 

His  hair  was  weedy,  his  beard  was  long, 

And  weedy  and  long  was  he, 
!A.nd  I  heard  this  wight  on  the  shore  recite. 

In  a  singular  minor  key: 

"Oh,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig. 
And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmitc 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 


SIR    WILLIAM    SCHWENCK    GILBERT         391 

And  he  shook  his  fists  and  he  tore  his  hair 

Till  I  really  felt  afraid. 
For  I  couldn't  help  thinking  the  man  had  been  drinking 

And  so  I  simply  said : 

"Oh,  elderly  man,  it's  little  I  know, 

Of  the  duties  of  men  of  the  sea, 
And  I'll  eat  my  hand  if  I  understand 

How  you  can  possibly  be 

"At  once  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  a  bo'sun  tight  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  a  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 

Then  he  gave  a  hitch  to  his  trousers,  which 

Is  a  trick  all  seamen  larn. 
And  having  got  rid  of  a  thumping  quid, 

He  spun  this  painful  yarn : 

"  'Twas  in  the  good  ship  Nancy  Bell 

That  we  sailed  to  the  Indian  sea. 
And  there  on  a  reef  we  came  to  grief. 

Which  has  often  occurred  to  me. 

"And  pretty  nigh  all  o'  the  crew  was  drowned 

(There  was  seventy-seven  o'  soul), 
And  only  ten  of  the  Nancy's  men 

Said  'Here !'  to  the  muster  roll. 

"There  was  me  and  the  cook  and  the  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  the  bo'sun  tight  an'  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

"For  a  month  we'd  neither  wittles  nor  drink. 

Till  a-hungry  we  did  feel. 
So,  we  drawed  a  lot,  and.  accordin',  shot 

The  captain  for  our  meal. 

"The  next  lot  fell  to  the  Nancy's  mate. 

And  a  delicate  dish  he  made; 
Then  our  appetite  with  the  midshipmite 

We  seven  survivors  stayed. 

"And  then  we  murdered  the  bo'sun  tight, 

.^»nd  he  much  resembled  pig; 
Then  we  wittled  free,  did  the  cook  and  me, 

On  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 


392    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSfc. 

"Then  only  the  cook  and  me  was  left. 

And  the   delicate  question,   'which 
Of  us  goes  to  the  kettle?'  arose, 

And  we  argued  it  out  as  sich. 

"For  I  loved  that  cook  as  a  brother,  I  did. 

And  the  cook  he  worshipped  me ; 
But  we'd   both  be   blowed  if   we'd  either  be  stowed 

In  the  other  chap's  hold,  you  see. 

"  'I'll  be  eat  if  you  dines  off  me,'  says  Tom. 

'Yes,  that,'  says  I,  "  'you'll  be,' — 
"  'I'm  boiled  if  I  die,  my  friend,'  quoth  I, 

And  'exactly  so,'  says  he. 

"Says  he,  'Dear  James,  to  murder  me 

Were  a  foolish  thing  to  do, 
For  don't  you  see  that  you  can't  cook  me. 

While  I  can — and  will — cook  you!' 

"So,  he  boils  the  water,  and  takes  the  salt 

And  the  pepper  in  portions  true 
(Which  he  never  forgot),  and  some  chopped  shalot. 

And  some  sage  and  parsley,  too. 

"  'Come  here,'  says  he.  with  a  proper  pride. 

Which  his  smiling  features  tell, 
''Twill  soothing  be  if  I  let  you  see 

How  extremely  nice  you'll  smell.' 

"And  he  stirred  it  round  and  round  and  round. 

And  he  sniffed  at  the  foaming   froth  ; 
When  I  ups  with  his  heels,  and  smothers  his  squeals 

In  the  scum  of  the  boiling  broth. 

"And  I  cat  that  cook  in  a  week  or  less. 

And — as  I  eating  be 
The  last  of  his  chops,  why  I  almost  drops. 

For  a  wcsscl  in  sight  I  see. 

******* 

"And  I  never  larf,  and  I  never  smile, 

And  I  never  lark  nor  plaj'. 
But  I  set  and  croak,  and  a  single  joke 

I  have — which  is  to  say: 

"Oh,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold. 

And  the  mate  of  the  N'ancv  brig, 
And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  mi'l^liipmite. 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig!" 


THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON  393 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe 

By   a  Miserable    Wretch 

O  OLL  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  I 

Through  pathless  realms  of  Space 
Roll  on ! 
What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case? 
What  though  I  cannot  meet  my  bills? 
What  though  I  suflter  toothache's  ills? 
What  though  I  swallow  countless  pills? 
Never  \ou  mind  I 
Roll  onl 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  onl 
Through  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on  I 
It's  true  I've  got  no  shirts  to  wear; 
It's  true  my  butcher's  bill  is  due ; 
It's  true  my  prospects  all  look  blue— - 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you  I 
Never  you  mind ! 

Roll  on  !     {It  rolls  on) 

THEODORE   WATTS-DUNTON    (1836-1914) 
From  "The  Coming  of  Love" 

T5ENEATH  the  loveliest  dream  there  coils  a  fear: 

Last  night  came  she  whose  eyes  are  memories  now; 
Her  far-off  gaze  seemed  all  forgetful  how 
I.ove  dimmed  them  once,  so  calm  they  shone  and  clear. 
"Sorrow,"  I  said,  "has  made  me  old,  my  dear; 
'Tis  I,  indeed,  but  grief  can  change  the  brow: 
Beneath  my  load  a  seraph's  neck  might  bow,_ 
Vigils   like  mine  would  blanch   an   angel's  hair." 
Oh,  then  I  saw,  I  saw  the  sweet  lips  move ! 
I  saw  the  love-mists  thickening  in  her  eyes — 
I  heard  a  sound  as  if  a  murmuring  dove 
Felt  lonely  in  the  dells  of  Paradise ; 
But  when  upon  my  neck  she  fell,  my  love. 
Her   hair   smelt   sweet   of   whin   and   woodland    spice. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  (1837-1909) 
From  "The  Triumph  of  Time" 

T  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother, — 
■■■       ATothf^r  and  lover  of  men,  the  Sea. 
I  will  go  down  to  her.  T  and  none  other. 

Close  with  her,  kiss  her,  and  mix  her  with  me; 


394    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Cling  to  her,  strive  with  her,  hold  her  fast; 
O  fair  white  mother,  in  days  long  past 
Born  without  sister,  born  without  brother, 
Set  free  my  soul  as  thy  soul  is   free. 

0  fair  green-girdled  mother  of  mine. 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  rain. 
Thy  sweet  hard  kisses  are  strong  like  wine. 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain. 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  w-aves, 
Find  me  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves. 
Those  pure  cold  populous  graves  of  thine. 

Wrought  without  hand  in  a  world  without  stain. 

1  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships, 
Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the  tide ; 

My  lips  will  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lips, 

I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  subside; 
Sleep,  and  not  know  if  she  be,  if  she  were. 
Filled  full  with  life  to  the  eyes  and  hair. 
As  a  rose  is  fulfilled  to  the  rose-leaf  tips 

With  splendid  summer  and  perfume  and  pride. 

This  woven  raiment  of  nights  and  days, 

Were  it  once  cast  off  and  unwound  from  me, 
Naked  and  glad  would  I  walk  in  thy  ways, 

Alive  and  aware  of  thy  waves  and  thee ; 
Clear  of  the  whole  world,  hidden  at  home. 
Clothed  with  the  green,  and  crowned  with  the  foam, 
A  pulse  of  the  life  of  thy  straits  and  bays, 

A  vein  in  the  heart  of  the  streams  of  the  Sea. 

Fair  mother,  fed  with  the  lives  of  men. 

Thou  art  subtle  and  cruel  of  heart,  men  say; 

Thou  hast  taken,  and  shalt  not  render  again; 
Thou  art  full  of  thy  dead,  and  cold  as  they. 

But  death  is  the  worst  that  comes  of  thee; 

Thou  art  fed  with  our  dead,  O  Mother,  O  Sea, 

But  when  hast  thou  fed  on  our  hearts?  or  when 
Having  given  us  love,  hast  thou  taken  away? 

O  tender-hearted,  O  perfect  lover. 
Thy  lips  are  bitter,  and  sweet  thine  heart. 

The  hopes  that  hurt  and  the  dreams  that  hover, 
Shall  they  not  vanish   away  and   apart? 

But  thou,  thou  art  sure,  thou  art  older  than  earth ; 

Thou  art  strong  for  death  and   fruitful  of  birth; 

Thy  depths  conceal   and  thy  gulfs  discover; 
From  the  first  thou  wert ;  in  the  end  thou  art. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  39J 

Chorus  from  ''Atalanta  in  Calydon" 

T\rHEN  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces, 
'  '         The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And   the   brown   bright   nightingale   amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might : 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet. 
Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to  her. 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling? 

O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring  1 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 

As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player ; 

For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  toher,  _ 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over. 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins ; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins ; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief   forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten. 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot. 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 

The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 


396    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen   from   seeing  and  leave  in  sight 

The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden   hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes ; 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast   shortening  into   sighs ; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 

The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 


The  Gardeyi  of  Prosperine 

ILJERE.  where  the  world  is  quiet. 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and   spent  waves'  riot 

In   doubtful  dreams   of   dreams, 
T   watch  the   green   field   growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 

A  sleepy  world   of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep; 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap : 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers, 
And  everything  but  sleep.   ' 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour. 
And  far  from  eye  or  car 

Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 
Weak  ships  and   spirits  steer; 

They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 

They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 

But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice. 
No   heather-flower   or   vine. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  397 

But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes, 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whefeout  she  crushes 

For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn, 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born ; 
And  like  a  soul  belated. 
In   hell   and   heaven   unmated, 
Bj'  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 

He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 
Nor  wake   with   wings   in  heaven^ 

Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 
Though  one  were   fair  as  roses, 
His  beauty  clouds  and  closes ; 
And  well  though  love  reposes. 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond   porch   and  portal. 
Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 

Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands ; 

Her   languid   lips   are   sweeter 

Than  Love's,  who  fears  to  greet  her. 

To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other. 

She  waits  for  all  men  born ; 
Forgets   the   earth   her  mother, 

The  life  of   fruits  and  corn ; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 

And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings  J 

And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 
And  all  disastrous  things ; 

Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken. 

Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 


398    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red   strays  of   ruined   springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

,  And  joy  was  never  sure; 

To-day  will  die  to-morrow ; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure ; 
And  Love,  grown  faint  and  fretful. 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We   thank  with   brief   thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods   may  be, 
That  no  life  lives  forever; 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never ; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 

Nor  any  change  of  light : 
Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 

Nor  any  sound  or  sight : 
Nor  wintry  leaves   nor  vernal, 
Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 

In  an  eternal  night. 

Ave  At  que  Vale 

IN   MEMORY   OF   CHARLES   BAUDELAIRE 

Nous    devrions    pourtant    lui    porter   quelques    fleurs ; 
Les  morts,  les  pauvres  morts,  ont  de  grandes  douleurs, 
Et  quand  Octobre  souffle,  cmondeur  des  vieux  arbres. 
Son  vent  melancolique  a  I'entour  de  leurs  marbres, 
Certe,  ils  doivent  trouver  les  vivants  bien  ingrats. 

Les  Flctirs  du  Mai. 

I 
CH.M.L  I  strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel. 
Brother,  on  this  that  was  the  veil  of  thee? 
Or  quiet  sea-flower  moulded  by  the  sea, 
Or  simplest  growth  of  meadow-sweet  or  sorrel. 
Such   as  the  summer-sleepy  Dryads  weave. 
Waked  up  by  snow-soft  sudden  rains  at  eve? 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  399 

Or  wilt  thou  rather,  as  on  earth  before, 
Half-faded  fiery  blossoms,  pale  with  heat 
And  full  of  bitter  summer,  but  more  sweef 

To  thee  than  gleanings  of  a  northern  shore 
Trod  by  no  tropic  feet? 

II 

For  always  thee  the  fervid  languid  glories 
Allured  of  heavier  suns   in   mightier  skies ; 
Thine   ears    knew   all   the   wandering   watery   sighs 

Where  the  sea  sobs  round  Lesbian   promontories, 
The  barren  kiss  of  piteous  wave  to  wave 
That  knows  not  where  is  that  Leucadian  grave 

Which  hides  too  deep  the  supreme  head  of  song. 
Ah,  salt  and  sterile  as  her  kisses  were, 
The  wild  sea  winds  her  and  the  green  gulfs  bear 

Hither  and  thither,  and  vex  and  work  her  wrong. 
Blind  gods  that  cannot  spare, 
in 

Thou  sawest,  in  thine  old  singing  season,  brother, 
Secrets  and  sorrows  unbeheld  of  us : 
Fierce    loves,    and    lovely    leaf-buds    poisonous. 

Bare  to  thy  subtler  eye,  but  for  none  other 

Blowing  by  night  in  some  unbreathed-in  clime  ; 
The  hidden  harvest  of  luxurious  time, 

Sin  without  shape,  and  pleasure  without  speech  : 
And   where   strange   dreams   in   a  tumultuous   sleep 
Make  the  shut  eyes  of  stricken  spirits  weep  • 

And  with  each  face  thou  sawest  the  shadow  on  each. 
Seeing  as  men  sow  men  reap. 

IV 

O  sleepless  heart  and  sombre  soul  unsleeping. 

That  were  athirst  for  sleep  and  no  more  life  _ 

And  no  more  love,  for  peace  and  no  more  strife! 
Now  the  dim  gods  of  death  have  in  their  keeping 

Spirit  and  body  and  all  the  springs  of  song. 

Is  it  well  now  where  love  can   do  no  wrong. 
Where  stingless  pleasure  has  no  foam  or  fang 

Behind  the  unopening  closure  of  her  lips? 

Is  it  not  well  where  soul   from  body  slips 
And  flesh  from  bone  divides  without  a  pang 

As  dew  from  flower-bell  drips? 


It  is  enough  :  the  end  and  the  beginning 

Are  one  thing  to  thee,  who  art  past  the  end. 
O  hand  unclasped  of  unbeholden  friend. 

For  thee  no  fruits  to  pluck,  no  palms   for  winning, 


400    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

No  triumph  and  no  labour  and  no  lust, 

Only  dead  yew-leaves  and  a  little  dust. 
O  quiet  eyes  wherein  the  light  saith  nought, 

Whereto  the  day  is  dumb,  nor  any  night 

With  obscure  finger  silences  your  sight, 
Nor   in  your  speech   the   sudden   soul   speaks   thought, 

Sleep,  and  have  sleep  for  light. 

VI 

Now  all  strange  hours  and  all  strange  loves  are  over, 
Dreams  and  desires  and  sombre  songs  and  sweet. 
Hast  thou  found  place  at  the  great  knees  and  feet 

Of  some  pale  Titan-woman  like  a  lover, 
Such  as  thy  vision  here  solicited. 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  fair  vast  head, 

The  deep  division  of  prodigious  breasts. 
The  solemn  slope  of  mighty  limbs  asleep, 
The  weight  of  awful  tresses  that  still  keep 

The  savor  and  shade  of  old-world  pine-forests 
Where   the   wet  hill-winds   weep? 

VII 

Hast  thou   found   any  likeness   for  thy  vision? 

O  gardener  of  strange  flowers,  what  bud,  what  bloom, 

Hast  thou  found  sown,  what  gathered  in  the  gloom? 
What  of  despair,  of  rapture,  of  derision, 

What  of  life  is  there,  what  of  ill  or  good? 

Are  the  fruits  gray  like  dust  or  bright  like  blood? 
Does  the  dim  ground  grow  any  seed  of  ours. 

The  faint  fields  quicken  and  terrene  root, 

In  low  lands  where  the  sun  and  moon  are  mute 
And  all  the  stars  keep  silence?     Are  there  flowers 

At  all,  or  any  fruit? 

VIII 

Alas,  but  though  my  flying  song  flies  after, 
O  sweet  strange  elder  singer,  thy  more  fleet 
Singing,  and  footprints  of  thy  fleeter  feet. 

Some  dim  derision  of  mysterious  laughter 

From  the  blind  tongueless  warders  of  the  dead, 
Some  gainless  glimpse  of  Proserpine's  veiled  head. 

Some  little  sound  of  unregarded  tears 
Wept  by  effaced  unprofitable  eyes. 
And  from  pale  mouths  some  cadence  of  dead  sighs — 

These  only,  these  the  hearkening  spirit  hears, 
Sees  only  such  things  rise. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  401 

IX 

Thou  art  far  too  far  for  wings  of  words  to  follow. 

Far  too  far  off  for  thought  or  any  prayer. 

What  ails  us  with  thee,   who  art  wind  and  air? 
What  ails  us  gazing-  where  all  seen  is  hollow? 

Yet  with  some  fancy,  yet  with  some  desire, 

Dreams  pursue  death  as  winds  a  flying  fire. 
Our  dreams  pursue  our  dead  and  do  not  find. 

Still,  and  more  swift  than  they,  the  thin  flame  flies, 

The  low  light  fails  us  in  elusive  skies, 
Still  the  foiled  earnest  ear  is  deaf,  and  blind 

Are  still  the  eluded  eyes. 

X 

Not  thee,  O  never  thee,  in  all  time's  changes. 
Not  thee,  but  this  the  sound  of  thy  sad  soul, 
The  shadow  of  thy  swift  spirit,  this  shut  scroll 

I  lay  my  hand  on,  and  not  death  estranges 
My  spirit  from  communion  of  thy  song — 
These  memories   and  these  melodies  tliat  throng 

Veiled  porches  of  a  Muse  funereal — 

These  I  salute,  these  touch,  these  clasp  and  fold 
As  though  a  hand  were  in  my  hand  to  hold, 

Or  througli  mine  ears  a  mourning  musical 
Of  many  mourners  rolled. 

XI 

I  among  these,  I  also,  in  such  station 
As  when  the  pyre  was  charred,  and  piled  the  sods, 
And  offering  to  the  dead  made,  and  their  gods, 

The   old   mourners   had,    standing   to   make   libation, 
I  stand,  and  to  the  gods  and  to  the  dead 
Do  reverence  without  prayer  or  praise,  and  shed 

Offering  to  these  unknown,  the  gods  of  gloom. 
And  what  of  honey  and  spice  my  seed-lands  bear, 
And  what  I  may  of  fruits  in  this  chilled  air, 

And  lay,  Orestes-like,  across  the  tomb 
A  curl  of  severed  hair. 

XII 

But  by  no  hand  nor  any  treason  stricken, 

Not   like  the   low-lying  head   of   Him,   the   King, 

The  flame  that  made  of  Troy  a  ruinous  thing. 
Thou  liest  and  on  this  dust  no  tears  could  quicken. 

There  fall  no  tears  like  theirs  that  all  men  hear 

Fall  tear  by  sweet  imperishable  tear 
Down  the  opening  leaves  of  holy  poet's  pages. 

Thee  not  Orestes,  not  Electra  mourns; 

But  bending  us-ward   with  memorial  urns 
The  most  high  Muses  that  fulfil  all  ages 

Weep,  and  our  God's  heart  yearns. 


403    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF   ENGLISH  VERSE 


For,  sparing  of  his  sacred  strength,  not  often 
Among  us  darkling  here  the   lord   of   light 
Makes  manifest  his   music  and  his  might 

In  hearts  that  open  and  in  lips  that  soften 
With  the  soft  flame  and  heat  of  songs  that  shine. 
Thy  lips  indeed  he  touched  with  bitter  wine, 

And  nourished  them  indeed  with  bitter  bread ; 
Yet  surelj'  from  his  hand  thy  soul's  food  came, 
The  fire  that  scarred  thy  spirit  at  his  flame 

Was  lighted,  and  thine  hungering  heart  he  fed 
Who  feeds  our  hearts  with  fame. 


Therefore  he  too  now  at  thy  soul's  sunsetting, 
God  of  all  suns  and  songs,  he  too  bends  down 
To  mix  his  laurel  with  thy  cypress  crown 

And  save  thy  dust  from  blame  and   from  forgetting. 
Therefore  he  too,  seeing  all  thou  wert  and  art, 
Compassionate,  with  sad  and  sacred  heart, 

Mourns  thee  of  many  his  children  the  last  dead. 
And  hallows  with  strange  tears  and  alien  sighs 
Thine  unmelodious  mouth  and  sunless  eyes 

And  over  thine  irrevocable  head 
Sheds  light  from  the  under  skies. 


And  one  weeps  with  him  in  the  ways  Lethean, 
And  stains  with  tears  her  changing  bosom  chill; 
That  obscure  Venus  of  the  hollow  hill. 

That  thing  transformed  which   was  the   Cytherean, 
With  lips  that  lost  their  Grecian  laugh  divine 
Long  since,  and  face  no  more  called  Erycine 

A  ghost,  a  bitter  and  luxurious  god. 

Thee  also  with  fair  flesh  and  singing  spell 
Did  she,  a  sad  and  second  prey,  compel 

Into  the  footless  places  once  more  trod, 
And  shadows  hot   from  hell. 

XVI 

And  now  no  sacred   staff  shall  break  in  blossom, 
No  choral  salutation  lure  to  light 
A  spirit  sick  with  perfume  and  sweet  niglit 

And   love's  tired  eyes   and   hands   and  barren  bosom. 
There  is  no  help  for  these  things ;  none  to  mend, 
And  none  to  mar ;  not  all  our  songs,  O  friend. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  403 

Will  make  death  clear  or  make  life  durable. 
Hovvbcit  with  rose  and  ivy  and  wild  vine^ 
And  with  wild  notes  about  this  dust  of  thine 

At  least  I  fill  the  place  where  white  dreams  dwell 
And  wreathe  an  unseen  shrine. 


Sleep;  and  if  life  was  bitter  to  thee,  pardon, 
If  sweet,  give  thanks;  thou  hast  no  more  to  live 
And  to  give  thanks   is  good,  and  to  forgive. 

Out  of  the  mystic  and  the  mournful  garden 
Where   all   day  through  thine  hands   in   barren  braid 
Wove  the  sick  flowers  of  secrecy  and  shade, 

Green  buds  of  sorrow  and  sin,  and  remnants  gray, 
Sweet-smelling,  pale   with   poison,   sanguine-hearted, 
Passions    that    sprang    from    sleep    and    thoughts    that 
started, 

Shall  death  not  bring  us  all  as  thee  one  day 
Among  the  days  departed? 


For  thee,  O  now  a  silent  soul,  my  brother, 

Take  at  my  hands  this  garland,  and  farewell. 
Thin  is  the  leaf,  and  chill  the   wintry  smell, 

And  chill  the  solemn  earth,  a  fatal  mother, 
With  sadder  than  the  Niobean  womb, 
And  in  the  hollow  of  her  breasts  a  tomb. 

Content  thee,  howsoe'er,  \yhose  days  are  done : 
There  lies  not  any  troublous  thing  before. 
Nor  sight  nor  sound  to  war  against  thee  more, 

For  whom  all  winds  are  quiet  as  the  sun, 
All  waters  as  the  shore. 

From  Prologue  to  "Tristram  of  Lyonesse' 

T   OVE,  that  is  first  and  last  of  all  things  made. 
The  light  that  has  the  living  world  for  shade. 
The  spirit  that  for  temporal  veil  has  on 
The  souls  of  all  men  woven  in  unison. 
One  fiery  raiment  with  all  lives  inwrought 
And  lights  of  sunny  and  starry  deed  and  thought, 
And  always  through  new  act  and  passion  new 
Shines  the  divine  same  body  and  beauty  through, 
The  body  spiritual  of  fire  and  light 
That  is  to  worldly  noon  as  noon  to  night; 
Love,  that  is  flesh  upon  the  spirit  of  man 


404    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  spirit   within   the  flesh   whence  breath   began; 

Love,  that  keeps  all  the  choir  of  lives  in  chime ; 

Love,  that  is  blood  within  the  veins  of  time ; 

That  wrought  the  whole  world  without  stroke  of  hand. 

Shaping  the  breadth  of  sea.  the  length  of  land. 

And  with  the  pulse  and  motion  of  his  breath 

Through  the  great  heart  of  the  earth  strikes  life  and  death 

The  sweet  twain  chords  that  made  the  sweet  tune  live 

Through  day  and  night  of  things  alternative, 

Through  silence  and  through  sound  of  stress  and  strife, 

And  ebb  and  flow  of  dying  death  and  life; 

Love,  that  sounds  loud  or  light  in  all  men's  ears, 

Whence  all  men's  eyes  take  fire  from  sparks  of  tears, 

That  binds  on  all  men's  feet  or  chains  or  wings ; 

Love,  that  is  root  and   fruit  of  terrene  things; 

Love,  that  the  whole  world's  waters  shall  not  drown. 

The  whole  world's  fiery  forces  not  burn  down ; 

Love,  that  what  time  his  own  hands  guard  his  head 

The  whole  world's  wrath  and  strength  shall  not  strike  dead; 

Love,  that  if  once  his  own  hands  make  his  grave 

The  whole  world's  pity  and  sorrow  shall  not  save ; 

Love  that  for  very  life  shall  not  be  sold. 

Nor  bought  nor  bound  with  iron  nor  with  gold ; 

So  strong  that  heaven,  could  love  bid  heaven  farewell, 

Would  turn  to  fruitless  and  unflowering  hell ; 

So  sweet  that  hell,  to  hell  could  love  be  given, 

Would  turn  to  splendid  and  sonorous  heaven ; 

Love  that  is  fire  within  thee  and  light  above, 

And  lives  by  grace  of  nothing  but  of  love ; 

Through  many  and  lovely  thoughts  and  much  desire 

Led  these  twain  to  the  life  of  tears  and  fire; 

Through  many  and  lovely  days  and  much  delight 

Led  these  twain  to  the  lifeless  life  of  night. 

Yea,  but  what  then?  albeit  all  this  were  thus, 
And  soul  smote  soul  and  left  it  ruinous, 
And  love  led  love  as  eyeless  men  lead  men, 
Through  chance  by  chance  to  deathward — 

Ah,  what  then? 
Hath  love  not  likewise  led  them  further  yet, 
Out  through  the  years  where  memories  rise  and  set, 
Some  large  as  suns,  some  moon-like  warm  and  pale. 
Some  starry-sighted,  some  through  clouds  that  sail 
Seen  as  red  flame  through  special  float  of  fume. 
Each  with  the  blush  of  its  own  spectral  bloom 
On  the   fair  face  of  its  own  coloured  light. 
Distinguishable  in  all  the  host  of  night. 
Divisible   from  all  the  radiant  rest 
And  separable  in  splendour?     Hath  the  best 
Light  of  love's  all,  of  all  that  burn  and  move, 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  405 

A  better  heaven  than  heaven  is?     Hath  not  love 

Made  for  all  these  their  sweet  particular  air 

To  shine  in,  their  own  beams  and  names  to  bear, 

Their  ways  to  wander  and  their  wards  to  keep, 

Till  story  and  song  and  glory  and  all  things  sleep? 

Hath  he  not  plucked  from  death  of  lovers  dead 

Their  musical  soft  memories,  and  kept  red 

The  rose  of  their  remembrance  in  men's  eyes, 

The  sunsets  of  their  stories  in  his  skies. 

The  blush  of  their  dead  blood  in  lips  that  speak 

Of  their  dead  lives,  and  in  the  listener's  cheek 

That  trembles  with  the  kindling  pity  lit 

In  gracious  hearts  for  some  sweet  fever-fit, 

A  fiery  pity  enkindled  of  pure  thought 

By  tales  that  make  their  honey  out  of  nought, 

The  faithless   faith  that  lives  without  belief 

Its  light  life  through,  the  griefless  ghost  of  grief? 

Yea,  as  warm  night  refashions  the  sere  blood 

In  storm-struck  petal  or  in  sun-struck  bud, 

With  tender  hours  and  tempering  dew  to  cure 

The  hunger  and  thirst  of  day's  distemperature 

And  ravin  of  the  dry  discolouring  hours. 

Hath  he  not  bid  relume  their-  flameless  flowers 

With  summer  fire  and  heat  of  lamping  song. 

And  bid  the  short-lived  things,  long  dead,  live  long, 

And  thought  remake  their  wan  funereal  fames. 

And  the  sweet  shining  signs  of  women's  names 

That  mark  the  months  out  and  the  weeks  anew 

He  moves  in  changeless  change  of  seasons  through 

To  fill  the  days  up  of  his  dateless  year 

Flame  from  Queen  Helen  to  Queen  Guenevere? 

For  first  of  all  the  sphery  signs  whereby 

Love  severs  light  from  darkness,  and  most  high, 

In  the  white  front  of  January  there  glows 

The  rose-red  sign  of  Helen  like  a  rose : 

And  gold-eyed  as  the  shore  flower  shelterless 

Whereon  the  sharp-breathed  sea  blows  bitterness, 

A  storm-star  that  the  seafarers  of  love 

Strain  their  wind-wearied  eyes  for  glimpses  of. 

Shoots  keen  through  February's  grey  frost  and  damp 

The  lamplike  star  of  Hero  for  a  lamp; 

The  star  that  Marlowe  sang  into  our  skies 

With  mouth  of  gold,  and  morning  in  his  eyes  ; 

And  in  clear  March  across  the  rough  blue  sea 

The  signal  sapphire  of  Alcyone 

Makes  bright  the  blown  brows  of  the  windfoot  year; 

And   shining  like  a   sunbeam-smitten   tear 

Full  ere  it  fall,  the  fair  next  sign  in  sight 

Burns  opal-wise  with  April-coloured  light 


406     THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

When  air  is  quick  with  song  and  rain  and  flame, 

My  birth-month  star  that  in  love's  heaven  hath  name 

IseuU,  a  Hght  of  blossom  and  beam  and  shower, 

My  singing  sign  that  makes  the  song-tree  flower ; 

Next  like  a  pale  and  burning  pearl  beyond 

The  rose-white  sphere  of  flower-named  Rosamond 

Signs  the  sweet  head  of  Maytime ;  and  for  June 

Flares  like  an  angered  and  storm-reddening  moon 

Her  signal  sphere,  whose  Carthaginian  pyre 

Shadowed  her  traitor's  flying  sail  with  fire ; 

Next,  glittering  as  the  wine-bright  jacinth-stone, 

A  star  south-risen  that  first  to  music  shone, 

The  keen  girl-star  of  golden  Juliet  bears 

Light  northward  to  the  month  whose  forehead  wears 

Her  name  for  flower  upon  it,  and  his  trees 

Mix  their  deep  English  song  with  Veronese; 

And  like  an  awful  sovereign  chrysolite 

Burning,  the  supreme  fire  that  blinds  the  night, 

The  hot  gold  head  of  Venus  kissed  by  Mars, 

A  sun-flower  among  small  sphered  flowers  of  stars, 

The  light  of  Cleopatra  fills  and  burns 

The  hollow  of  heaven  whence  ardent  August  yearns ; 

And  fixed  and  shining  as  the  sister-shed 

Sweet  tears  for  Phaethon  disorbed  and  dead. 

The  pale  bright  autumn's  amber-coloured  sphere, 

That  through   September  sees  the  saddening  year 

As  love  sees  change  through  sorrow,  hath  to  name 

Francesca's ;  and  the  star  that  watches  flame 

The  embers  of  the  harvest  overgone 

Is  Thisbe's,  slain  of  love  in  Babylon, 

Set  in  the  golden  girdle  of  sweet  signs 

A  blood-bright  ruby ;  last  save  one  light  shines 

An  Eastern  wonder  of  sphery  chrysopras. 

The  star  that  made  men  mad,  Angelica's ; 

And  latest  named  and  lordliest,  with  a  sound 

Of  swords  and  harps  in  heaven  that  ring  it  round, 

Last  love-light  and  last  love-song  of  the  year's, 

Gleams  like  a  glorious  emerald  Guenevere's. 

A  Match 

¥F  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 
Our  lives   would   grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes. 

Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief ; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  407 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 

And  love  were  h'ke  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 

And  love  were  like  the  tune. 


If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 

And  I  your  love  were  death. 
We'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 
With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of   fruitful  breath ; 
If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 


If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 


If  you  were  April's  lady 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  day  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 


If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 

And  find  his  mouth  a  rein ; 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


408    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
The  Oblation 

A  SK  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet ; 
All  1  can  give  j-oii,  I  give. 
Heart  of  my  heart,  were  it  more, 
More  would  be  laid  at  your  feet : 
Love  that  should  help  you  to  live, 
Song  that  should  spur  you  to  soar. 

All  things  were  nothing  to  give 
Once  to  have  sense  of  you  more, 
Touch  you  and  taste  of  you,  sweet, 
Think  you  and  breathe  you  and  live, 
Swept  of  j'our  wings  as  they  soar 
Trodden  by  chance  of  your  feet. 

I  that  have  love  and  no  more 
Give  you  but  love  of  you,  sweet: 
He  that  hath  more,  let  him  give ; 
He  that  hath   wings   let  him   soar ; 
Mine  is  the  heart  at  your   feet 
Here,  that  must  love  you  to  live. 

THOMAS  HARDY   (1840-        ) 
In  the  Moonlight 

A  lonely  workman,  standing  there 
■^^   In  a  dream,  why  do  yon  stare  and  stare 
At  her  grave,  as  no  other  grave  there  were? 

"If  your  great  gaunt  eyes  so  importune 

Her  soul  by  the  shine  of  this  corpse-cold  moon. 

Maybe  you'll  raise  her  phantom   soon !" 

"Why,  fool,  it  is  what  I  would  rather  see 

Than  all  the  living  folk  there  be ; 

But  alas,  there  is  no  such  joy  for  me!" 

"Ah — she  was  one  you  loved,  no  doubt. 

Through  good  and  evil,  through  rain  and  drought, 

And  when  she  passed,  all  your  sun  went  out?" 

"Nay:  she  was  the  woman  I  did  not  love, 
Whom  all  the  others  were  ranked  above. 
Whom   during  her  life  I  thought  nothing  of." 


WILFRED  SCAWEN  BLUNT  409 

The  Man  He  Killed 

«]LTAD  he  and  I  but  met  _ 

By  some  old  ancient  inn, 
We  should  have  sat  us  down  to  wet 
Right  many  a  nipperkin  I 

"But  ranged  as  infantry, 
And  staring  face  to  face, 
I  shot  at  him  as  he  at  me, 

And  killed  him  in  his  place. 

"I  shot  him  dead  because — 
Because  he  was  my  foe. 
Just  so :  my  foe  of  course  he  was ; 
That's  clear  enough ;  although 

"He  thought  he'd  'list,  perhaps. 
Off-hand  like — just  as  I — 
Was  out  of  work — had  sold  his  traps — 
No  other  reason  why. 

"Yes  ;  quaint  and  curious  war  is  ! 
You   shoot   a   fellow   down 
You'd  treat  if  met  where  any  bar  is, 
Or  help  to  half-a-crown." 


WILFRED  SCAWEN  BLUNT  (1840-        ) 

To  One  Who  JVould  Make  a  Confession 

/^H!  leave  the  past  to  bury  its  own  dead. 

The  past  is  naught  to  us,  the  present  all. 
What  need  of  last  year's  leaves  to  strew  Love's  bed? 
What  need  of  ghost  to  grace  a  festival? 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  those  days  recall. 
Those  days  not  ours.     For  us  the  feast  is  spread, 
The  lamps  are  lit,  and  music  plays  withal. 
Then  let  us  love  and  leave  the  rest  unsaid. 
This  island  is  our  home.     Around  it  roar 
Great  gulfs  and  oceans,  channels,  straits  and  seas. 
What  matter  in  what  wreck  we  reached  the  shore, 
So  we  both  reached  it?     We  can  mock  at  these. 

Oh!  leave  the  past,  if  past  indeed  there  be; 

I  would  not  know  it ;  I  would  know  but  thee. 


410    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

To  Manon,  on  His  Fortune  in  Loving  Her 

J  did  not  choose  thee,  dearest.     It  was  Love 

That  made  the  choice,  not  I.    Mine  eyes  were  blind 
As  a  rude  shepherd's  who  to  some  lone  grove 
His  offering  brings  and  cares  not  at  whose  shrine 
He  bends  his  knee.    The  gifts  alone  were  mine; 
The  rest  was  Love's.     He  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  fired  the  sacrifice,  and  poured  the  wine, 
And  spoke  the  words  I  might  not  understand. 

I  was  unwise  in  all  but  the  dear  chance 
Which  was  my  fortune,  and  the  blind  desire 
Which  led  my  foolish  steps  to  Love's  abode, 
And  youth's   sublime   unreason'd   prescience 
Which  raised  an  altar  and  inscribed  in  fire 
Its  dedication:  To  the  Unknou:tv  God. 


From  "Esther'^ 

A  little  honey!     Ay,  a  little  sweet, 

A  little  pleasure  when  the  years  were  young, 
A  joj'ous  measure  trod  by  dancing  feet, 
A  tale  of   folly  told  by  a  loved  tongue, — 
These  are  the  things  by  which  our  hearts  are  wrung 
More  than  by  tears.     Oh,  I  would  rather  laugh. 
So  I  had  not  to  choose  those  tales  among 
Which  was  most  laughable.     Man's  nobler  self 
Resents  mere  sorrow.     I  would  rather  sit 
With  just  the  common  crowd  that  watch  the  play 
And  mock  at  harlequin  and  the  clown's  wit, 
And  call  it  tragedy  and  go  my  way. 
I  should  not  err,  because  the  tragic  part 
Lay  not  in  these,  but  sealed  in  my  own  heart. 


AUSTIN  DOBSON   (1840-        ) 

A  Garden  Song 

TLTERE,  in  this  sequestered  close 
Bloom  the  hyacinth  and  rose; 
Here  beside   the  modest  stock 
Flaunts  the  flaring  hollyhock; 
Here,  without  a  pang,  one  sees 
Ranks,  conditions,  and  degrees. 


AUSTIN  DOBSON  411 

All  the  seasons  run  their  race 
In  this  quiet  resting-place ; 
Peach,   and   apricot,   and  fig 
Here  will  ripen,  and  grow  big; 
Here  is  store  and  overplus, — 
More  had  not  Alcinoiis ! 

Here,  in  alleys  cool  and  green, 
Far  ahead  the  thrush  is  seen ; 
Here  along  the  southern  wall 
Keeps  the  bee  his  festival ; 
All  is  quiet  else — afar 
Sounds  of  toil  and  turmoil  are. 

Here  be  shadows  large  and  long; 
Here  be  spaces  meet  for  song; 
Grant,  O  garden-god,  that  I, 
Now  that  none  profane  is  nigh, — 
Now  that  mood  and  moment  please. 
Find  the  fair  Pierides ! 

The  Ladies  of  St.  James's 

A   PROPER    NEW   BALLAD   OF   THE    COUNTRY   AND    THE    TOWN 

Phyllida  amo  ante  alias. — Virgil 
'HE  ladies  of  St.  JameL;'s 


T 


Go  swinging  to  the  play; 
Their  footmen  run  before  them. 

With  a  "Stand  by!    Clear  the  wayl' 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida ! 

She  takes  her  buckled  shoon, 
When  we  go  out  a-courting 

Beneath  the  harvest  moon. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Wear  satin  on  their  backs ; 
They  sit  all  night  at  Ombre, 

With  candles  all  of  wax: 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida! 

She  dons  her  russet  gown. 
And  runs  to  gather  May  dew 

Before  the  world  is  down. 

The   ladies   of    St.   James's ! 

They  are  so  fine  and  fair, 
You'd  think  a  box  of  essences 

Was  broken  in  the  air: 


412    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllidal 
The  breath  of  heath  and  furze 

When  breezes  blow  at  morning, 
Is  not  so  fresh  as  hers. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's  1 

They're  painted  to  the  eyes ; 
Their  white  it  stays  for  ever 

Their  red  it  never  dies : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllidal 

Her  color  comes  and  goes; 
It  trembles  to  a  lily, — 

It  wavers  to  a  rose. 

The  ladies  of   St.  James's  I 

You  scarce  can  understand 
The  half  of  all  their  speeches, 

Their  phrases  are  so  grand: 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida! 

Her  shy  and  simple  words 
Are  clear  as   after   rain-drops 

The  music  of  the  birds. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's ! 

They  have  their  fits  and  freaks ; 
They  smile  on  you — for  seconds, 

They  frown  on  you — for  weeks : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida! 

Come  either  storm  or  shine, 
From  Shrove-tide  unto  Shrove-tide, 

Is  always  true — and  mine. 

My  Phyllida!  my  Phyllida! 

I  care  not  though  they  heap 
The  hearts  of  all   St.  James's, 

And  give  me  all  to  keep ; 
I  care  not  whose  the  beauties 

Of  all  the  world  may  be. 
For    Phvllida— for    Phyllida 

Is  all  the  world  to  me  1 

The  Ballade  of  Prose  and  Rhyme 

"^X^IIEN  the  ways  are  heavy  with  mire  and  rut, 
'^  In  November  fogs,  in  December  snows, 

When  the  North  Wind  howls,  and  the  doors  are  shut,- 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose ; 

But  whenever  a  scent  from  the  whitethorn  blows, 


AUSTIN  DOBSON  413 

And  the  jasmine-stars  at  the  casement  climb, 

And  a  Rosalind-face  at  the  lattice  shows, 
Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme  I 

When  the  brain  gets  dry  as  an  empty  nut, 

When  the  reason  stands  on  its  squarest  toes. 
When  the  mind    (like  a  beard)   has  a  "formal  cut," — 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; 

But  whenever  the  May-blood  stirs  and  glows, 
And  the  young  year  draws  to  the  "golden  prime," 

And  Sir  Romeo  sticks  in  his  ear  a  rose, — 
Then  hey — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme  I 

In  a  theme  where  the  thoughts  have  a  pedant-strut, 

In  a  changing  quarrel  of   "Ayes"  and   "Noes," 
In  a  starched  procession  of  "If"  and  "But," — 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; 

But  whenever  a  soft  glance  softer  grows. 
And  the  light  hours  dance  to  the  trysting-time, 

And  the  secret  is  told  "that  no  one  knows,"— 
Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme  1 


In  the  work-a-day  world, — for  its  needs  and  woes, 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; 
But  whenever  the  May-bells  clash  and  chime, 
Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

In  After  Days 

(Rondeau) 

T  N  after  days  when  grasses  high 
O'er  top  the  stone  where  I  shall  lie, 
Though  ill  or  well  the  world  adjust 
My  slender  claim  to  honoured  dust, 

I  shall  not  question  nor  reply. 

I  shall  not  see  the  morning  sky; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  night-wind  sigh; 
I  shall  be  mute,  as  all  men  must 
In  after  days ! 

But  yet,  now  living,  fain  were  I 
That  some  one  then  should  testify, 
Saying — "He  held  his  pen  in  trust 
To  Art,  not  serving  shame  or  lust." 
Will  none? — Then  let  my  memory  die 
In  after  days! 


414    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Triolet 

T  intended  an  Ode. 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 
It  began  a  la  mode, 
I  intended  an  Ode ; 
But  Rose  crossed  the  road 

In  her  latest  new  bonnet ; 
I  intended  an  Ode ; 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 

ROBERT  BUCHANAN   (1841-1901) 

Judas  Iscariot 

''T'WAS  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange,  and  sad,  and  tall, 
Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 
Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  world  was  white  with  snow, 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp, 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silver  moon  arose. 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves. 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white,_ 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Pass'd  on  the  window  light. 

The  shadows  of  the  wedding-guests 

Did  strongly  come  and  go, 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch'd  along  the   snow. 

The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Laj'  stretched  along  the  snow; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

To  and  fro,  and  np  and  down. 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there. 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  Pole 

Glideth  the  lean  white  bear. 

.  .  .  'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table-head, 
And  the  lights  burnt  bright  and  clear — 

"Oh,  who  is  that,"  the  Bridegroom  said, 
"Whose  weary  feet  I  hear?" 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN  415 

'Twas  one  looked   from  the  lighted  hall. 

And  answer'd  soft  and  slow, 
"It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 

With  a  black  track  in  the  snow." 

The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white 

Sat  at  the  table-head — 
"Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without?" 

The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 

'Twas  one  look'd  from  the  lighted  hall. 

And  answer'd  fierce  and  low, 
"  'Tis  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Gliding  to  and   fro." 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand. 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 

And  he  was  clad  in  white, 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  broad  and  bright. 

The  Bridegroom  shaded  his  eyes  and  look'd. 

And  his  face  was  bright  to  see — 
"What  dost  thou  here  at  the  Lord's  Supper 

With  thy  body's  sins?"  said  he. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare — 
"I  have  wander'd  many  nights  and  days ; 

There  is  no  light  elsewhere." 

'Twas  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within, 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright — 

"Scourgethe  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night  I" 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 

And  he  waved  his  hands  and  slow. 
And  the  third  time  that  he  waved  his  hands 

The  air  v/as  thick  with  snow. 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow. 

Before  it  touch'd  the  ground. 
There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 

Made  sweet  sound. 


416    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet, 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  oflF 

Were  like  its  winding-sheet. 

'Twas  the  bridegroom  stood  at  the  open  door, 

And  beckon'd,  smiling  sweet ; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within, 

And  the  many  candles  shine, 
And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 

Before  I  pour'd  the  wine." 

The  supper  wine  is  pour'd  at  last, 

The  lights  burn  bright  and  fair, 
Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet, 

And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 


F.  W.  H.  MYERS   (1843-1901) 

The  Inner  Light 

T  0,  if  some  pen  should  write  upon  your  rafter 
Mene  and  Mene  in  the  folds  of  flame, 
Think  you  could  any  memories  thereafter 
Wholly  retrace  the  couplet  as  it  came? 

Lo.  if  some  strange,  intelligible  thunder 
Sang  to  the  earth  the  secret  of  a  star. 

Scarce  could  ye  catch,  for  terror  and  for  wonder, 
Shreds  of  the  story  that  was  pealed  so  far. 

Scarcely  I  catch  the  words  of  His  revealing. 
Hardly  I  hear  Him,  dimly  understand, 

Only  the  Power  that  is  within  me  pealing 
Lives  on  my  lips  and  beckons  to  my  hand. 

Whoso  has  felt  the  Spirit  of  the  Highest 
Cannot  confound  nor  doubt  Him  nor  deny: 

Yea,  with  one  voice,  O  world,  though  thou  deniest. 
Stand  thou  on  that  side,  for  on  this  am  I. 

Rather  the  earth  shall  doubt  when  her  retrieving 
Pours  in  the  rain  and  rushes  from  the  sod. 

Rather  than  he  for  whom  the  great  conceiving 
Stirs  in  his  soul  to  quicken  into  God. 


ARTHUR    O'SHAUGHNESSY  417 

Ay,  though  thou  then  shouldst  strike  from  him  his  glory, 
Blind  and  tormented,  maddened  and  alone. 

Even  on  the  cross  would  he  maintain  his  story, 
Yes,  and  in  hell  would  whisper,  I  have  known. 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY  (1844-1881) 
Ode 

"liyE  are  the  music  makers, 
'^'         And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams. 
Wandering  by  lone   sea-breakers, 

And   sitting  by  desolate   streams ; — 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers. 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams : 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of  the  world   for  ever,  it  seems. 

With   wonderful   deathless   ditties  _ 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities. 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We   fashion  an  empire's  glory: 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown ; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  a  kingdom  down. 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built   Nineveh    with    our   sighing. 

And  Babel  itself  in  our  mirth; 
And  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth ; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth.  .  .  . 

Abridged. 


Song 


H 


[AS  summer  come  without  the  rose, 

^       Or  left  the  bird  behind? 
Is  the  blue  changed  above  thee, 

O  world !   or  am   I  blind  ? 
Will  you  change  every  flower  that  grows, 

Or  only  change  this  spot. 
Where  she  who  said,  I  love  thee, 

Now  says,  I  love  thee  not? 


418    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  skies  seemed  true  above  thee, 

The  rose  true  on  the  tree ; 
The  bird  seemed  true  the  summer  through, 

But  all  proved  false  to  me. 
World !  is  there  one  good  thing  in  you, 

Life,  love,  or  death — or  what? 
Since  lips  that  sang,  I  love  thee, 

Have  said,  I  love  thee  not? 

I  think  the  sun's  kiss  will  scarce  fall 

Into  one  flower's  gold  cup ; 
I  think  the  bird  will  miss  me, 

And  give  the  summer  up. 
O  sweet  place !  desolate  in  tall 

Wild  grass,  have  you   forgot 
How  her  lips  toyed  to  kiss  me, 

Now  that  they  kiss  me  not? 

Be  false  or  fair  above  me. 

Come  back  with  any  face, 
Summer! — do  I  care  what  you  do? 

You  cannot  change  one  place — 
The  grass,  the  leaves,  the  earth,  the  dew, 

The  grave  I  make  the  spot — 
Here,  where  she  used  to  love  me, 

Here,  where  she  loves  nie  not. 


Song 

Tmade  another  garden,  yea, 

For  my  new  love ; 
I  left  the  dead  rose  where  it  lay, 

And  set  the  new  above. 
Why  did  the  summer  not  bf gin  ? 

Why  did  my  heart  not  haste? 
My  old  love  came  and  walked  therein. 

And  laid  the  garden  waste. 

She  entered  with  her  weary  smile. 

Just  as  of  old ; 
She  looked  around  a  little  while. 

And  shivered  at  the  cold. 
Her  passing  touch  was  death  to  all, 

Her  passing  look  a  blight : 
She  made  the  white  rose-petals  fall, 

And  turned  the  red  rose  white. 


ROBERT  BRIDGES  419 

Her  pale  robe,  clinging  to  the  grass, 

Seemed  like  a  snake 
That  bit  the  grass  and  ground,  alas ! 

And  a  sad  trail  did  make. 
She  went  up  slowly  to  the  gate ; 

And  there,  just  as  of  yore, 
She  turned  back  at  the  last  to  wait, 

And  say  farewell  once  more. 


Song  from  "Chartivel" 

TJATH  any  loved  you  well,  down  there, 

■*■   Summer  or  winter  through? 
Down  there,  have  you  found  any  fair 

Laid  in  the  grave  with  you? 
Is  death's  long  kiss  a  richer  kiss 

Than  mine  was  wont  to  be — 
Or  have  you  gone  to  some  far  bliss 

And  quite  forgotten  me? 

What  soft  enamouring  of  sleep 

Hath  you  in  some  soft  way? 
What  charmed  death  holdeth  you  with  deep 

Strange  lure  by  night  and  day? 
A  little  space  below  the  grass, 

Out  of  the  sun  and  shade ; 
But  worlds  away  from  me,  alas, 

Down  there  where  you  are  laid? 

My  bright  hair's  waved  and  wasted  gold, 

What  is  it  now  to  thee — 
Whether  the  rose-red  life  I  hold 

Or  white  death  holdeth  me? 
Down  there  you  love  the  grave's  own  green, 

And  evermore  you  rave 
Of  some  sweet  seraph  you  have  seen 

Or  dreamt  of  in  the  grave.  .  . . 


Abridged. 


ROBERT  BRIDGES  (1844-        ) 

¥  love  all  beauteous  things, 

1  seek  and  adore  them; 
God  hath  no  better  praise, 
And  man  in  his  hasty  days 
Is  honoured  for  them. 


420    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

I,  too,  will  somethingr  make 

And  joy  in  the  making; 
Altho'  to-morrow  it  seem 
Like  the  empty  words  of  a  dream 

Remembered  on  waking. 

I  have  loved  flowers  that  fade ; 
Within  whose  magic  tents 
Rich  hues  have  marriage  made 
With  sweet  vmmemoried  scents : 
A  honej'moon  delight, — 
A  joy  of  love  at  sight, 
That  ages  in  an  hour : — 
My  song  be  like  a  flower  I 

I  have  loved  airs  that  die 
Before  their  charm  is  writ 
Along  a  liquid  sky 
Trembling  to  welcome  it. 
Notes,  that  with  pulse  of  fire 
Proclaim  the  spirit's  desire, 
Then  die,  and  are  nowhere : — 
My  song  be  like  an  air ! 

Die,  song,  die  like  a  breath, 
And  wither  as  a  bloom : 
Fear  not  a  flowery  death, 
Dread  not  an  airy  tomb ! 
Fly  with  delight,  fly  hence ! 
'Twas  thine  love's  tender  sense 
To  feast,  now  on  thy  bier 
Beauty  shall  shed  a  tear. 

Elegy  on  a  Lady  JFhom  Grief  for  the  Death 

of  Her  Betrothed  Killed 

A  SSEMBLE,  all  ye  maidens,  at  the  door, 
"^   And  all  ye  loves,  assemble,  far  and  wide 
Proclaim  the  bridal,  that  proclaimed  before 
Hath  been  deferred  to  this  late  eventide : 
For  on  this  night  the  bride. 
The  days  of  her  betrothal  over. 
Leaves  the  parental  hearth  for  evermore : 
To-night  the  bride  goes  forth  to  meet  her  lover. 

Reach  down  the  wedding  vesture,  that  has  lain 

Yet  all  unvisited,  the  silken  gown  : 
Bring  out  the  bracelets,  and  the  golden  chain 


ROBERT  BRIDGES  421 

Her  dearer  friends  provided:  sere  and  brown 
Bring  out  the  festal  crown. 
And  set  it  on  her  forehead  lightly: 
Though  it  be  withered,  twine  no  wreath  again ; 
This  only  is  the  crown  she  can  wear  rightly. 

Cloak  her  in  ermine,  for  the  night  is  cold, 
And  wrap  her  warmly,  for  the  night  is  long, 
In  pious  hands  the  flaming  torches  hold. 
While  her  attendants,  chosen  from  among 
Her  faithful  virgin  throng, 
May  lay  her  in  her  cedar  litter, 
Decking  her  coverlet  with  sprigs  of  gold, 
Roses,  and  lilies  white  that  best  befit  her. 

Sound  flute  and  tabor,  that  the  bridal  be 
Not  without  music,  nor  with  these  alone; 
But  let  the  viol  lead  the  melody, 
With  lesser  intervals,  and  plaintive  moan 
Of  sinking  semitone ; 
And,  all  in  choir,  the  virgin  voices 
Rest  not  from  singing  in  skilled  harmony 
The  song  that  aye  the  bridegroom's  ear  rejoices. 

Let  the  priests  go  before,  arrayed  in  white, 
And  let  the  dark-stoled  minstrels  follow  slow. 
Next  they  that  bear  her,  homeward  on  this  night, 
And  then  the  maidens,  in  a  double  row, 
Each  singing  soft  and  low. 
And  each  on  high  a  torch  upstaying: 
Unto  her  lover  lead  her  forth  with  light. 
With  music,  and  with  singing,  and  with  praying. 

'Twas  at  this  sheltering  hour  he  nightly  came, 
And  found  her  trusty  window  open  wide, 
And  knew  the  signal  of  the  timorous  flame. 
That  long  the  restless  curtain  would  not  hide 
Her  form  that  stood  beside ; 
As  scarce  she  dare  to  be  delighted. 
Listening  to  that  sweet  tale,  that  is  no  shame 
To  faithful  lovers,  that  their  hearts  have  plighted. 

But  now  for  many  davs  the  dewy  grass 
Has  shown  no  markings  of  his  feet  at  morn : 
And  watching  she  has  seen  no  shadow  pass 
The  moonlit  walk,  and  heard  no  music  borne 
Upon  her  ear  forlorn. 
In  vain  has  she  looked  out  to  greet  him ; 
He  has  not  come,  he  will  not  come,  alas ! 
So  let  us  bear  her  out  where  she  must  meet  him. 


422    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Now  to  the  river  bank  the  priests  are  come : 
The  bark  is  ready  to  receive  its  freight: 
Let  some  prepare  her  place  therein,  and  some 
Embark  the  htter  with  its  slender  weight: 
The  rest  stand  by  in  state, 
And  sing  her  a  safe  passage  over; 
While  she  is  oared  across  to  her  new  home 
Into  the  arms  of  her  expectant  lover. 

And  thou,  O  lover,  that  art  on  the  watch, 
Where,  on  the  banks  of  the  forgetful  streams, 
The  pale  indifferent  ghosts  wander,  and  snatch 
The  sweeter  moments  of  their  broken  dreams, — 
Thou,  when  the  torchlight  gleams. 
When  thou  shall  see  the  slow  procession, 
And  when  thine  ears  the  fitful  music  catch, 
Rejoice,  for  thou  art  near  to  thy  possession. 

Nightingales 

"D  EAUTIFUL  must  be  the  mountains  whence  ye  come, 
■"^    And  bright  in  the  fruitful  valleys  the  streams,  wherefrom 

Ye  learn  your  song : 
Where  are  those  starry  woods?     O  might  I  wander  there. 
Among  the  flowers,  which  in  that  heavenly  air 
Bloom  the  year  long! 

Nay,  barren  are   those  mountains  and  spent   the  streams: 
Our  song  is  the  voice  of  desire,  that  haunts  our  dreams, 

A   throe  of  the  heart. 
Whose  pining  visions  dim,  forbidden  hopes  profound, 
No  dying  cadence  nor  long  sigh  can  sound, 

For  all  our  art. 

Alone,  aloud  in  the  raptured  ear  of  men 

We  pour  our  dark  nocturnal  secret;  and  then. 

As  night  is  withdrawn 
From   these   sweet-springing   meads  and   bursting   boughs  of 
May, 
Dream,  while  the  innumerable  choir  of  day 
Welcome  the  dazun. 

A  Passer -By 

■^^  HITHER,  O  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails  crowding, 
~         Leaning  across  the  bosom  of  the  urgent  West, 

That  fearest  nor  sea  rising,  nor  sky  clouding. 
Whither  away,  fair  rover,  and  what  thy  quest? 
Ah,  soon,  when  Winter  has  all  our  vales  opprest, 


ANDREW  LANG  423 

When  skies  are  cold  and  misty,  and  hail  is  hurling', 

Wilt  thou  glide  on  the  blue  Pacific,  or  rest 
In  a  summer  haven  asleep,  thy  white  sails  furling. 

I  there  before  thee,  in  the  country  that  well  thou  knowest, 
Already  arrived  am  inhaling  the  odorous  air : 

I  watch  thee  enter  unerringly  where  thou  goest, 
And  anchor  queen  of  the  strange  shipping  there. 
Thy  sails  for  awnings  spread,  thy  masts  bare; 

Nor   is   aught   from   the   foaming   reef  to   the   snow-capped, 
grandest 
Peak,  that  is  over  the  feathery  palms  more  fair 

Than  thou,  so  upright,  so  stately,  and  still  thou  standest. 

And  yet,  O  splendid  ship,  unhail'd  and  nameless, 

I  know  not  if,  aiming  a  fancy,  I  rightly  divine 
That  thou  hast  a  purpose  joyful,  a  courage  blameless, 

Thy  port  assured  in  a  happier  land  than  mine*. 

But  for  all  I  have  given  thee,  beauty  enough  is  thine. 
As  thou,  aslant  with  trim  tackle  and  shrouding. 

From  the  proud  nostril  curve  of  a  prow's  line 
In  the  offing  scatterest  foam,  thy  white  sails  crowding. 

ANDREW  LANG    (1844-1891) 
The  Odyssey 

A  S  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 
■^       Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 

In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  ^sean  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain. 

And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine. 

As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again — 
So  gladly,  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 

Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers, 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours 
They  hear  like  Ocean  on  a  western  beach 

The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 

Lost  Love 

'Y\7"HO  wins  his  Love  shall  lose  her, 

Who  loses  her  shall  gain, 
For  still  the  spirit  wooes  her, 

A  soul  without  a  stain  ; 
And  Memory  still  pursues  her 

With  longings  not  in  vain ! 


424    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

He  loses  her  who  gains  her, 

Who  watches  day  by  day 
The  dnst  of  time  that  stains  her, 

The  griefs  that  leave  her  gray, 
The  flesh  that  yet  enchains  her 

Whose  grace  hath  passed  away  I 

Oh,  happier  he  who  gains  not 
The  Love  some  seem  to  gain : 

The  joy  that  custom  stains  not 
Shall  still  with  him  remain, 

The  loveliness  that  wanes  not, 
The  Love  that  ne'er  can  wane. 

In  dreams  she  grows  not  older 
The  lands  of  Dream  among, 

Though  all  the  world  wax  colder. 
Though  all  the  songs  be  sung. 

In  dreams  doth  he  behold  her 
Still  fair  and  kind  and  young. 

Ballade  of  Middle  Age 

^^UR  youth  began  with  tears  and  sighs, 
^^  With  seeking  what  we  could  not  find; 

Our  verses  all  were  threnodies, 

In  elegiacs  still  we  whined ; 

Our  ears  were  deaf,  our  eyes  were  blind, 
We  sought  and  knew  not  what  we  sought. 

We  marvel,  now  we  look  behind : 
Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought! 

Oh,  foolish  youth,  untimely  wise ! 

Oh,  phantoms  of  the  sickly  mind  I 
What?  not  content  with  seas  and  skies, 

With  rainy  clouds  and  southern  wind, 

With  common  cares  and  faces  kind, 
With  pains  and  joys  each  morning  brought? 

Ah,  old,  and  worn,  and  tired  we  find 
Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought ! 

Though  youth  "turns  spectre-thin  and  dies," 

To  mourn  for  youth  we're  not  inclined ; 
We  set  our  souls  on  salmon  flies, 

We  whistle  where  we  once  repined. 

Confound  the  woes  of  human-kind  I 
By  Heaven  we're  "well  deceived,"  I  wot; 

Who  hum,  contented   or   resigned. 
"Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought"! 


EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON  425 

ENVOY 

O  note  vicciim,  worn  and  lined 
Our  faces  show,  but  that  is  naught ; 

Our  hearts  are  young  'neath  wrinkled  rind: 
Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought ! 

EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON    (1845-1907) 
Idle  Charon 

nPHE  shores  of  Styx  are  lone  forevermore, 

And  not  one  sliadow}'^  form  upon  the  steep 
Looms  through  the  dusk,  as  far  as  eyes  can  sweep. 

To  call  the  ferry  over  as  of  j^ore ; 

But  tintless  rushes,  all  about  the  shore, 

Have  hemm'd  the  old  boat  in,   where,  lock'd  in  sleep, 
Hoar-bearded  Charon  lies ;  while  pale  weeds  creep 

With  tightening  grasp  all   round  the  unused  oar. 

For  now  in  the  world  of  Life  strange  rumors  run 
That  now  the  Soul  departs  not  with  the  breath, 

But  that  the  Body  and  the  Soul  are  one ; 
And  in  the  loved  one's  mouth,  now,  after  death, 

The  widow  puts  no  obol,  nor  the  son, 
To  pay  the  ferry  in  the  world  beneath. 

Baudelaire 

A  Paris  gutter  of  the  good  old  times, 

Black  and  putrescent  in  its  stagnant  bed, 
Save  where  the  shamble  oozings  fringe  it  red, 
Or  scaffold  trickles,  or  nocturnal  crimes. 
It  holds  dropped  gold ;  dead  flowers  from  tropic  climes ; 
Gems  true  and  false,  by  midnight  maskers  shed ; 
Old  pots  of  rouge ;  old  broken  phials  that  spread 
Vague  fumes  of  musk,  with   fumes  from  slums  and  slimes. 
And  everywhere,  as  glows  the  set  of  day, 
There  floats  upon  the  winding  fetid  mire 
The  gorgeous  iridescence  of  decay : 
A  wavy  film  of  colour,  gold  and  fire, 
Trembles  all  through  it  as  you  pick  your  way, 
And  streaks  of  purple  that  are  straight  from  Tyre. 

GRANT  ALLEN    (1848-1901) 
A  Prayer 

A  crowned  Caprice  is  god  of  this  world: 
-'*•  On  his  stony  breast  are  his  white  wings  furled. 
No  ear  to  listen,  no  eye  to  see, 
No  heart  to  feel  for  a  man  hath  he. 


426    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

But  his  pitiless  arm  is  swift  to  smite ; 
And  his  mute  lips  utter  one  word  of  might, 
Mid  the  clash  of  gentler  souls  and  rougher, 
"Wrong  must  thou  do,  or  wrong  must  suffer." 
Then  grant,  oh  !  dumb  blind  god,  at  least  that  we 
Rather  the  sufferers  than  the  doers  be. 


EDMUND    GOSSE    (1849-        ) 
To  Austin  Dobs  on 

■J^EIGHBOUR  of  the  near  domain, 
Stay  awhile  your  passing  wain! 
Though  to  give  is  more  your  way, 
Take  a  gift  from  me  to-day! 
From  my  homely  store  I  bring 
Signs  of  my  poor  husbanding; — 
Here  a  spike  of  purple  phlox, 
Here  a  spicy  bunch  of  stocks. 
Mushrooms    from   my  moister   fields, 
Apples  that  my  orchard  3'ields, — 
Nothing, — for  the  show  they  make, 
Something, — for  the  donor's  sake  ; 
Since  for  ten  years  we  have  been 
Best  of  neighbours  ever  seen ; 
We  have  fronted  evil  weather, 
Nip  of  critic's  frost,  together ; 
We  have  shared  laborious  days. 
Shared  the  pleasantness  of  praise ; 
Brother  not  more  close  to  brother. 
We  have  cheered  and  helped  each  other : 
Till  so  far  the  fields  of  each 
Into  the  other's  stretch  and  reach. 
That  perchance  when  both  are  gone 
Neither  may  be  named  alone. 

Impression 

TN  these  restrained  and  careful  times 

Our  knowledge  petrifies   our  rhymes ; 
Ah !  for  that  reckless  fire  men  had 
When  it  was  witty  to  be  mad ; 

When  wild  conceits  were  piled  in  scores, 
And  lit  by  flaming  metaphors, 
When  all  was  crazed  and  out  of  tune, — 
Yet  throbbed  with  music  of  the  moon. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY  427 

If  we  could  dare  to  write  as  ill 
As  some  whose  voices  haunt  us  still, 
Even  we,  perchance,  might  call  our  own 
Their  deep  enchanting  undertone. 

We  are  too  diffident  and  nice, 
Too  learned  and  too  over-wise, 
Too  mucli  afraid  of  faults  to  be 
The  flutes  of  bold  sincerity. 

For,  as  this  sweet  life  passes  by. 
We  blink  and  nod  with  critic  eye  ;  _ 
We've  no  words  rude  enough  to  give 
Its  charm  so  frank  and  fugitive. 

The  green  and  scarlet  of  the  Park, 
The  undulating  streets  at  dark. 
The  brown  smoke  blown  across  the  blue, 
This  colored  city  we  walk  through ; — 

The  pallid  faces  full  of  pain, 
The  field-smell  of  the  passing  wain, 
The  laughter,  longing,  perfume,  strife, 
The  daily  spectacle  of  life; — 

Ah !  how  shall   this  be  given  to  rhyme, 
By  rhymesters  of  a  knowing  time? 
Ah !  for  the  age  when  verse  was  clad, 
Being  godlike,  to  be  bad  and  mad. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY   (1849-1903) 
Invictus 

f\\JT  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
^'^       Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 
I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For   my   unconquerable    soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds  and  shall  find  me  unafraid. 


428    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 
How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate : 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

From  "In  Hospital" 

Operation 

"VOU  are  carried  in  a  basket, 

Like  a  carcass  from  the  shambles. 
To  the  theatre,  a  cockpit 
Where  they  stretch  you  on  a  table. 

Then  they  bid  you  close  your  eyelids. 
And  they  mask  you  with  a  napkin. 
And  the  anaesthetic  reaches 
Hot  and  subtle  through  your  being. 

And  you  gasp  and  reel  and  shudder 
In  a  rushing,  swaying  rapture, 
While  the  voices  at  your  elbow 
Fade — receding — fainter — farther. 

Lights  about  you  shower  and  tumble, 
And  your  blood  seems  crystallizing — 
Edged  and  vibrant,  yet  within  you 
Racked  and  hurried  back  and  forward. 

Then  the  lights  grow  fast  and  furious, 
And  you  hear  a  noise  of  waters. 
And  you  wrestle,  blind  and  dizzy. 
In  an  agony  of  effort. 

Till  a  sudden  lull  accepts  you. 

And  you  sound  an  utter  darkness  .  .  . 
And  awaken  .  .  .  with  a  struggle  .  .  . 
On  a  hushed,  attentive  audience. 

"J  Late  Lark  Twitters  from  the  Quiet  Skies** 

A   late  lark  twitters   from  the  quiet  skies  ; 
And   from  the  west. 
Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended. 
Lingers   as   in   content. 
There  falls  on  the  old,  gray  city 
An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 
A  shining  peace. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY  429 

The  smoke  ascends 

In  a  rosy-and-fjolden  haze.     The  spires 

Shine,  and  are  changed.  In  the  valley 

Shadows  rise.     The  lark  sings  on.     The  sun. 

Closing  his  hencdiction, 

Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 

Thrills  with  a  sense  of  the  triumphing  night — 

Night  with  her  train  of  stars 

And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing! 

My  task   accomplished    and   the   long   day   done. 

My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 

Some  late  lark  singing, 

Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west, 

The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 

Death. 

From   "London   Voluntaries" 

T\  OWN  through  the  ancient  Strand 

The  Spirit  of  October,  mild  and  boon 
And  sauntering,  takes  his  way 
This  golden  end  of  afternoon. 
As  though  the  corn  stood  yellow  in  all  the  land 
And  the  ripe  apples  dropped  to  the  harvest  moon. 

Lo !  the  round  sun,  half  down  the  western  slope — 

Seen  as  along  an  enlarged  telescope — 

Lingers  and  lolls,  loath  to  be  done  with  day: 

Gifting  the  long,  lean,  lanky  street 

And  its  abounding  confluences  of  being 

With  aspects  generous  and  bland : 

Making  a  thousand  harnesses  to  shine 

As  with  new  ore  from  some  enchanted  mine. 

And  every  horse's  coat  so  full  of  sheen 

He  looks  new-tailored,  and  every  'bus  feels  clean, 

And  never  a  hansom  but  is  worth  the  feeing; 

And  every  jeweller  within   the  pale 

Offers    a   real    Arabian    Night    for    sale; 

And  even  the  roar 

Of  the  strong  streams  of  toil  that  pause  and  pour 

Eastward  and  westward  sounds  suffused — 

Seems  as  it  were  bemused 

And  blurred,  and  like  the  speech 

Of  lazy  seas  upon   a  lotus-eating  beach — 

With  this  enchanted  lustrousness. 

This  mellow  magic  that  (as  a  man's  caress 

Brings  back  to  some  faded  face  beloved  before 


430    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF   ENGLISH  VERSE 

A  heavenly  shadow  of  the  grace  it  wore 

Ere  the  poor  eyes  were  minded  to  beseech) 

Old  things  transfigures,  and  you  hail  and  bless 

Their  looks  of  long-lapsed   lovcIinc?s  once  more; 

Till  the  sedate  and  mannered  elegance 

Of  Clement's  is  all  tinctured  with  romance; 

The  while  the  fanciful,  formal,  finicking  charm 

Of  Bride's,  that  madrigal  in  stone, 

Glows  flushed  and  warm 

And  beauteous  with  a  beauty  not  its  own ; 

And  the  high  majesty  of  Paul's 

Uplifts  a  voice  of  living  light,  and  calls — 

Calls  to  his  millions  to  behold  and  see 

How   goodly   this   his    London   Town   can   be! 

For  earth  and  sky  and  air 

Are   golden   everywhere, 

And  golden  with  a  gold  so  suave  and   fine 

The  looking  on  it  lifts  the  heart  like   wine. 

Trafalgar  Square 

(The  fountains  volleying  golden  glaze) 

Gleams    like    an    angel    market.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  poisonous  East, 

Over  a  continent  of  blight. 

Like  a  maleficent  Influence  released 

From  the  most  squalid  cellarage  of  hell. 

The  Wind-Fiend,  the  abominable — ■ 

The  hangman  wind  that  tortures  temper  and  light — 

Comes   slouching,   sullen  and  obscene, 

Hard  on  the  skirts  of  the  embittered   night: 

And  in  a  cloud  unclean 

Of  excremental   humours,   roused   to   strife 

By  the  operation  of  some  ruinous  change 

Wherever  his  evil  mandate  run   and  range 

Into  a  dire  intensity  of  life, 

A  craftsman  at  his  bench,  he  settles  down 

To  the  grim  job  of  throttling  London  Town.  .  .  . 

And  Death  the  while — 

Death,  with  his  well-worn,  lean,  professional   smile. 

Death  in  his  threadbare  working  trim — 

Comes  to  your  bedside,  unannounced  and  bland, 

And  with  expert,  inevitable  hand 

Feels  at  your  windpipe,  fingers  you  in  the  lung, 

Or  flicks  the  clot  well  into  the  labouring  heart : 

Thus   signifying  unto  old  and  young, 

However  hard  of  mouth  or  wild  of  whim, 

'Tis  time — 'tis  time  by  his  ancient  watch — to  part 

With  books  and  women  and  talk  and  drink  and  art: 

And  j'ou  go  humbly  after  him 


THEOPHILE  MARZIALS  431 

To  a  mean  suburban  lodging:  on  the  way 

To  what  or  where 

Not  Death,  who  is  old  and  very  wise,  can  say : 

And  you — how   should  you  care 

So  long  as,  unreclaimed  of  hell, 

The  Wind-Fiend,  the  insufiferable, 

Thus  vicious  and  thus  patient  sits  him  down 

To  the  black  job  of  lurking  London  Town? 

Abridged. 

THEOPHILE  MARZIALS    C1850-        ) 

A  Tragedy 

CHE  was  only  a  woman,  famished  for  loving, 
^        Mad  with  devotion,  and  such  slight  things ; 
And  he  was  a  very  great  musician,^ 
And  used  to  finger  his  fiddle-strings. 

Her  heart's  sweet  gamut  is  cracking  and  breaking 
For  a  look,  for  a  touch, — for  such  slight  tliinc-s ; 

But  he's  such  a  very  great  musician 

Grimacing  and  fingering  his  fiddle-strings. 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  (1850-1894) 
Romance 

T  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight 
Of  bird-song  at  morning  and   star-shine  at  night. 
I  will  make  a  palace  fit  for  you  and  me, 
Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at  sea. 

I  will  make  mj'  kitchen,  and  you  shall  keep  your  room, 
Where  white  flows  the  river  and  bright  blows  the  broom, 
And  you  shall  wash  your  linen  and  keep  your  body  white 
In  rainfall  at  morning  and  dewfall  at  night. 

And  this  shall  be  for  music  when  no  one  else  is  near, 
The  fine  song  for  singing,  the  rare  song  to  hear  I 
That  only  I  remember,  that  only  you  admire, 
Of  the  broad  road  that  stretches  and  the  roadside  fire. 

Happy  Thought 

'T'HE  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 

I'm   sure  we   should   all  be   as   happy  as  kings. 


432    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
In  the  HigJilands 

TN  tile  highlands,  in  the  country  places, 

Where  the  old  plain  men  have  rosy  faces, 
And  the  yoimg  fair  maidens 
Quiet  eyes ; 

Where  essential   silence   cheers   and  blesses. 
And  for  ever  in  the  hill-recesses 
Her  more  lovely  music 
Broods  and  dies. — 

O  to  mount  again  where  erst  I  haunted ; 

Where  the  old  red  hills  are  bird-enchanted, 

And  the  low  green  meadows 

Bright  with   sward ; 

And  when  even  dies,  the  million-tinted. 

And  the  night  has  come,  and  planets  glinted, 

Lo,  the  valley  hollow 

Lamp-bestarred ! 

O  to  dream,  O  to  awake  and  wander 

There,  and  with  delight  to  take  and  render, 

Through   the   trance   of   silence. 

Quiet  breath ! 

Lo  1  for  there,  among  the  flowers  and  grasses. 

Only  the  mightier  movement  sounds  and  passes ; 

Only  winds  and  rivers. 

Life  and  Death. 

Requiem 

TTNDER  the  wide  and  starry  sky 

Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  f pr  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON    (1850-1887) 

TT  must  have  been  for  one  of  us,  my  own, 

To  drink  this  cup  and  eat  this  bitter  bread. 
Had  not  my  tears  upon  thy  face  been  shed, 
Thy  tears  had  dropped  on  mine;  if  I  alone 
Did  not  walk  now,  thy  spirit  would  have  known 


ALICE  MFA'NELL  433 

My  loneliness;   and  did  my   feet  not  tread 
This  weary  path  and  steep,  thy  feet  had  bled 
For  mine,  and  thy  mouth  had  for  mine  made  moan : 

And  so  it  comforts  me,  yea,  not  in  vain. 

To  think  of  thine  eternity  of  sleep; 

To  know  thine  ej'es  are  tearless  though  mine  weep : 
And  when  this  cup's  last  bitterness  I  drain. 

One  thought  shall  still  its  primal  sweetness  keep, — 
Thou  hadst  the  peace  and  I  the  undying  pain. 


ALICE    MEYNELL    (1853-        ) 
Renouncement 

T  must  not  think  of  thee ;  and,  tired  j'et  strong, 
I  shun  the  love  that  lurks  in  all  delight — 
The  love  of  thee — and  in  the  blue  heaven's  height. 
And  in  the  dearest  passage  of  a  song. 
Oh,  just  beyond  the  fairest  thoughts  that  throng 
This  breast,  the  thought  of  thee  waits  hidden  yet  iDright ; 
But  it  must  never,  never  come  in  sight ; 
I  must  stop  short  of  thee  the  whole  day  long. 
But  when  sleep  comes  to  close  each  difficult  day, 
When  night  gives  pause  to  the  long  watch  I  keep, 
And  all  my  bonds  I  needs  must  loose  apart, 
Must  doff  my  will  as  raiment  laid  away, — 
With  the  first  dream  that  comes  with  the  first  sleep 
I  run,  I  run,  I  am  gathered  to  thy  heart. 


The  Lady  of  the  Lambs 

CHE  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.     She  keeps  them  white; 

She  guards  them  from  the  steep. 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height. 

And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Her  dreams  are  innocent  at  night; 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  wallcs — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 


434    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight, 

Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 
She  is  so  circumspect  and  right; 

She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

"FIONA  MACLEOD"   (1856-1905) 
(Pseud,  of  IVilliain  Sharp) 

Mo-lennav-a-chree 

"C*  ILIDH,  Eilidh,  Eilidh,  dear  to  me,  dear  ana  sweet, 

In  dreams  I  am  hearing  the  sound  of  your  little  running 
feet— 
The  sound  of  your  running  feet  that  like  the  sea-hoofs  beat 
A  music  by  day  an'  night,  Eilidh,  on  the  sands  of  my  heart, 
my  Sweet ! 

Eilidh,  blue  i'  the  eyes,  flower-sweet  as  children  are. 

And  white  as  the  canna  that  blows  with  the  hill-breast  wind 

afar, 
Whose  is  the  light  in  thine  eyes — the  light  of  a  star? — a  star 
That  sitteth  supreme  where  the  starry  lights  of  heaven  a  glory 


Eilidh,  Eilidh,  Eilidh,  put  off  your  wee  hands  from  the  heart 

o'  me, 
It  is  pain  they  are  making  there,  where  no  more  pain  should 

be: 
For  little  running  feet,  an'  wee  white  hands,  an'  croodlin'  as 

of  the  sea, 
Bring  tears  to  my  eyes,  Eilidh,  tears,  tears,  out  of  the  heart 

o'  me — 

Mo-lennav-a-chree, 
Mo-lennav-a-chree  ! 

OSCAR  WILDE  (1856-1900) 
Helas 

T^O  drift  with  every  passion,  till  my  soul 
■"•    Is  a  strinpcd  lute  on  which  all  winds  can  play, 
Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  given  away 
Mine  ancient  wisdom  and  austere  control? 
Methinks  my  life  is  a  twice-written  scroll, 
Scrawled  over  on  some  boyish  holiday 
With  idle  songs  for  pipe  or  virelay. 
Which  do  but  mar  the  secret  of  the  whole. 


OSCAR  WILDE  435 

Surely  there  was  a  time  I  might  have  trod 
The  sunlight  heights,  and  from  life's  dissonance 
Struck  one  clear  chord  to  reach  the  ears  of  God  I 
Is  that  time  dead  ?    Lo !  with  a  little  rod 
I  did  but  touch  the  honey  of  romance, 
And  must  I  lose  a  soul's  inheritance? 

The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol 


XJE  did  not  wear  his  scarlet  coat, 

For  blood  and  wine  are  red, 
And  blood  and  wine  were  on  his  hands 

When  they  found  him  with  the  dead, 
The  poor  dead  woman  whom  he  loved, 

And  murdered  in  her  bed. 

He  walked  amongst  the  Trial  Men 

In  a  suit  of  shabby  gray; 
A  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head, 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay; 
But  I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

Which  prisoners  call  the  sky. 
And  at  every  drifting  cloud  that  went 

With  sails  of  silver  by. 

I  walked,  with  other  souls  in  pain, 

Within  another  ring. 
And  was  wondering  if  the  man  had  done 

A  great  or  little  thing, 
When  a  voice  behind  me  whispered  low, 

"That  fellow's  got  to  STmng." 

Dear  Christ !  the  very  prison  walls 

Suddenly  seemed  to  reel. 
And  the  sky  above  my  head  became 

Like  a  casque  of  scorching  steel ; 
And,  though  I  was  a  soul  in  pain. 

My  pain  I  could  not  feel. 

I  only  knew  what  hunted  thought 
Quickened  his  step,  and  why 

He  looked  upon  the  garish  day 
With  such  a  wistful  eye ; 

The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved, 
And  so  he  had  to  die 


436    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Yet  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 

By  each  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 

Some  with  a  flattering  word, 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss, 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword  1 

Some  kill  their  love  when  they  are  young, 

And  some  when  they  are  old ; 
Some  strangle  with  the  hands  of  Lust, 

Some  with  the  hands  of  Gold : 
The  kindest  use  a  knife,  because 

The  dead  so  soon  grow  cold. 

Some  love  too  little,  some  too  long. 

Some  sell,  and  others  buy ; 
Some  do  the  deed  with  many  tears. 

And  some  without  a  sigh : 
For  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 

Yet  each  man  does  not  die. 

He  does  not  die  a  death  of  shame 

On  a  day  of  dark  disgrace, 
Nor  have  a  noose  about  his  neck, 

Nor  a  cloth  upon  his  face, 
Nor  drop  feet  foremost  through  the  floor 

Into  an  empty  space. 

He  does  not  sit  with  silent  men 
Who  watch  him  night  and  day; 

Who  watch  him  when  he  tries  to  weep, 
And  when  he  tries  to  pray; 

Who  watch  him  lest  himself  should  rob 
The  prison  of  its  prey. 

He  does  not  wake  at  dawn  to  see 
Dread  figures  throng  his  room. 

The  shivering  Chaplain   robed  in  white. 
The  Sheriff  stern  with  gloom. 

And  the  Governor  all  in  shiny  black. 
With  the  yellow  face  of  Doom. 

He  does  not  rise  in  piteous  haste 

To  put  on  convict-clothes, 
While  some  coarse-mouthed  Doctor  gloats,  and 
notes 

Each  new  and  nerve-twitched  pose. 
Fingering  a  watch  whose  little  ticks 

Are  like  horrible  hammer-blows. 


OSCAR  WILDE  437 

He  does  not  know  that  sickening  thirst 

That  sands  one's  throat,  before 
The  hangman  with  his  gardener's  gloves 

Slips  through  the  padded  door, 
And  binds  one  with  three  leathern  thongs, 

That  the  throat  may  thirst  no  more. 

He  does  not  bend  his  head  to  hear 

The  Burial  Office  read. 
Nor,  while  the  terror  of  his  soul 

Tells  him  he  is  not  dead, 
Cross  his  own  coffin,  as  he  moves 

Into  the  hideous  shed. 

He  does  not  stare  upon  the  air 

Through  a  little  roof  of  glass : 
He  does  not  pray  with  lips  of  clay 

For  his  agony  to  pass ; 
Nor  feel  upon  his  shuddering  cheek 

That  kiss  of  Caiaphas. 
H 
Six  weeks  our  guardsman  walked  the  yard, 

In  the  suit  of  shabby  gray: 
His  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head. 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay, 
But  I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

Which  prisoners  call  the  sky, 
And  at  every  wandering  cloud  that  trailed 

Its  raveled  fleeces  by. 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands,  as  do 

Those  witless  men  who  dare 
To  try  to  rear  the  changelingHope 

In  the  cave  of  black  Despair: 
He  only  looked  upon  the  sun, 

And  drank  the  morning  air. 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands  nor  weep, 

Nor  did  he  peek  or  pine, 
But  he  drank  the  air  as  though  it  held 

Some  healthful  anodyne ; 
With  open  mouth  he  drank  the  sun 

As  though  it  had  been  wine! 


438    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  I  and  all  the  souls  in  pain, 

Who  tramped  the  other  ring, 
Forgot  if  we  ourselves  had  done 

A  great  or  little  thing, 
And  watched  with  gaze  of  dull  amaze 

The  man  who  had  to  swing. 

And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  pass 

With  a  step  so  light  and  gay, 
And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  look 

So  wistfully  at  the  day, 
And  strange  it  was  to  think  that  he 

Had  such  a  debt  to  pay. 

For  oak  and  elm  have  pleasant  leaves 

That  in  the  spring-time  shoot : 
But  grim  to  see  is  the  gallows-tree, 

With  its  adder-bitten  root, 
And,  green  or  dry,  a  man  must  die 

Before  it  bears  its  fruit ! 

The  loftiest  place  is  that  seat  of  grace 

For  which  all  wordlings  try: 
But  who  would  stand  in  hempen  band 

Upon  a  scaffold  high, 
And  through  a  murderer's  collar  take 

His  last  look  at  the  sky? 

It  is  sweet  to  dance  to  violins 
When  Love  and  Life  are  fair: 

To  dance  to  flutes,  to  dance  to  lutes 
Is  delicate  and  rare : 

But  it  is  not  sweet  with  nimble  feet 
To  dance  upon  the  air ! 

So  with  curious  eyes  and  sick  Surmise 

We  watched  him  day  by  day, 
And  wondered  if  each  one  of  us 

Would  end  the  self-same  way, 
For  none  can  tell  to  what  red  Hell 

His  sightless  soul  may  stray. 

At  last  the  dead  man  walked  no  more 

Amongst  the  Trial  Men, 
And  I  knew  that  he  was  standing  up 

In  the  black  dock's  dreadful  pen, 
And  that  never  would  I  see  his  face 

In  God's  sweet  world  again. 


OSCAR  WILDE  439 

Like  two  doomed  ships  that  pass  in  storm, 

We  had  crossed  each  other's  way: 
But  we  made  no  sign,  we  said  no  word, 

We  had  no  word  to  say ; 
For  we  did  not  meet  in  the  holy  night, 

But  in  the  shameful  day. 

A  prison  wall  was  round  us  both, 

Two  outcast  men  we  were : 
The  world  had  thrust  us  from  its  heart. 

And  God  from  out  his  care : 
And  the  iron  gin  that  waits  for  Sin 

Had  caught  us  in  its  snare, 
ni 

In  Debtor's  Yard  the  stones  are  hard. 

And  the  dripping  wall  is  high, 
So  it  was  there  he  took  the  air 

Beneath  the  leaden  sky, 
And  by  each  side  a  Warder  walked, 

For  fear  the  man  might  die. 

Or  else  he  sat  with  those  who  watched 

His  anguish  night  and  day; 
Who  watched  him  when  he  rose  to  weep, 

And  when  he  crouched  to  pray ; 
Who  watched  hira  lest  himself  should  rob 

Their  scaffold  of  its  prey. 

The  Governor  was  strong  upon 

The  Regulations  Act : 
The  Doctor  said  that  Death  was  but 

A  scientific   fact : 
And  twice  a  day  the  Chaplain  called. 

And  left  a  little  tract. 

And  twice  a  day  he  smoked  his  pipe. 

And  drank  his  quart  of  beer: 
His  soul  was  resolute,  and  held 

No  hiding-place    for   fear ; 
He  often  said  that  he  was  glad 

The  hangman's  hands  were  near. 

But  why  he  said  so  strange  a  thing 

No  Warder  dared  to  ask : 
For  he  to  whom  a  watcher's  doom 

Is  given  as  his  task, 
Must  set  a  lock  upon  his  lips. 

And  make  his  face  a  mask. 


440    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Or  else  he  might  be  moved,  and  try 

To  comfort  or  console : 
And  what  should  Human  Pity  do 

Pent  up  in  Murderers'  Hole? 
What  word  of  grace  in  such  a  place 

Could  help  a  brother's  soul? 

With  slouch  and  swing  around  the  ring 

We  trod  the  Fools'   Parade ! 
We  did  not  care :  we  knew  we  were 

The   Devil's   Own   Brigade : 
And  shaven  head  and  feet  of  lead 

Make  a  merry  masquerade. 

We  tore  the  tarry  rope  to  shreds 
With  blunt  and  bleeding  nails ; 

We  rubbed  the  doors,  and  scrubbed  the  floors, 
And   cleaned   the    shining  rails : 

And,  rank  by  rank,  we  soaped  the  plank, 
And  clattered  with  the  pails. 

We  sewed  the  sacks,  we  broke  the  stones, 

We  turned  the  dusty  drill : 
We  banged  the  tins,  and  bawled  the  hymns, 

And  sweated  on  the  mill : 
But  in  the  heart  of  every  man 

Terror   was   lying   still. 

So  still  it  lay  that  everj^  day 

Crawled  like  a  weed-clogged  wave : 

And  we  forgot  the  bitter  lot 
That  waits  for  fool  and  knave, 

Till  once,  as  we  tramped  in  from  work. 
We  passed  an  open  grave. 

With  yawning  mouth  the  yellow  hole 

Gaped   for  a  living  thing ; 
The  very  mud  cried  out  for  blood 

To  the  thirsty  asphalt  ring: 
And  we  knew  that  ere  one  dawn  grew  fair. 

Some  prisoner  had  to  swing. 

Right  in  we  went,  with  soul  intent 
On  Death  and  Dread  and  Doom : 

The  hangman,  with  his  little  bag, 
Went  shuffling  through  the  gloom : 

And  each  man  trembled  as  he  crept 
Into  his  numbered  tomb. 


OSCAR  WILDE  441 

That  night  the  empty  corridors 

Were  full  of  forms  of  Fear, 
And  up  and  down  the  iron  town 

Stole   feet  we  could  not  hear, 
And  through   the  bars   that  hide  the  stars 

White  faces  seemed  to  peer. 

He  lay  as  one  who  lies  and  dreams 

In  a  pleasant  meadow-land, 
The  watchers  watched  him  as  he  slept, 

And  could  not  understand 
How  one  could  sleep  so  sweet  a  sleep 

With  a  hangman  close  at  hand. 

But  there  is  no  sleep  when  men  must  weep 

Who  never  yet  have  wept : 
So  we — the  fool,  the  fraud,  the  knave — 

That  endless  vigil  kept, 
And  through  each  brain  on  hands  of  pain 

Another's  terror  crept. 

Alas !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  feel  another's  guilt  I 
For.  right  within,  the  sword  of  Sin 

Pierced    to    its    poisoned    hilt. 
And  as  molten  lead  were  the  tears  we  shed 

For  the  blood  we  had  not  spilt. 

The  Warders  with  their  shoes  of  felt 

Crept  by  each  padlocked  door. 
And  peeped  and  saw,  with  eyes  of  awe, 

Gray  figures  on  the  floor, 
And  wondered  why  men  knelt  to  pray 

Who  never  prayed  before. 

All  through  the  night  we  knelt  and  prayed, 

Mad  mourners  of  a  corse ! 
The  troubled  plumes  of  midnight  were 

The  plumes  upon  a  hearse : 
And  bitter  wine  upon  a  sponge 

Was  the  savor  of  Remorse. 

The  gray  cock  crew,  the  red  cock  crew, 

But  never  came  the  day; 
And  crooked  shapes  of  terror  crouched 

In  the  corners  where  we  lay : 
And  each  evil  sprite  that  walks  by  night 

Before  us  seemed  to  play. 


442    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

They  glided  past,  they  glided  fast, 

Like  travelers  through  a  mist : 
They  mocked  the  moon  in  a  rigadoon 

Of  delicate  turn  and  twist, 
And  with  formal  pace  and  loathsome  grace 

The  phantoms  kept  their  tryst. 

With  mop  and  mow,  we  saw  them  go, 

Slim  shadows  hand  and  hand : 
About,  about,  in  ghostly  rout 

They  trod   a   saraband : 
And  the  damned  grotesques  made  arabesques, 

Like  the  wind  upon  the  sand ! 

With  pirouettes  of  marionettes 
They  tripped  on  pointed  tread : 

But  with  flutes  of  Fear  they  filled  the  ear, 
As  their  grisly  masque  they  led, 

And  loud  they  sang,  and  long  they  sang. 
For  they  sang  to  wake  the  dead. 

"Oho!"  they  cried,  "The  world  is  xinde. 

But  fettered  limbs  go  lame! 
And  once,  or  tzmce,  to   throw  the  dice 

Is  a  gentlemanly  game. 
But  he  does  not  win  who  plays  ixnth  Sin 

In   the   Secret   House    of  Shame." 

No  things  of  air  these  antics  were. 
That  frolicked  with  such  glee : 

To  men  whose  lives  were  held  in  gyves. 
And  whose   feet  might  not  go  free. 

Ah !  wounds  of  Christ !  they  were  living  things, 
Most  terrible  to  see. 

Around,  around,  they  waltzed  and  wound; 

Some  wheeled  in  smirking  pairs ; 
With  the  mincing  step  of  a  demirep 

Some   sidled   up   the   stairs : 
And  with  subtle  sneer,  and  fawning  leer, 

Each  helped  us  at  our  prayers. 

The  morning  wind  began  to  moan, 

But  still  the  night  went  on ; 
Through  its  giant  loom  the  web  of  gloom 

Crept  till  each  thread  was  spun : 
And,  as  we  prayed,  we  grew  afraid 

Of  the  Justice  of  the  Sun. 


OSCAR  WILDE  443 

The  moaning  wind  went  wandering  round 

The  weeping  prison-wall : 
Till  like  a  wheel  of  turning  steel 

We  felt  the  minutes  crawl : 
O  moaning  wind  !  what  had  we  done 

To  have  such  a  seneschal? 

At  last  I  saw  the  shadowed  bars, 

Like  a  lattice  wrought  in  lead, 
Move  right  across  the  whitewashed  wall 

That  faced  my  three-planked  bed. 
And  I  knew  that  somewhere  in  the  world 

God's  dreadful  dawn  was  red. 

At  six  o'clock  we  cleaned  our  cells. 

At  seven  all  was  still, 
But  the  sough  and  swing  of  a  mighty  wing 

The  prison  seemed  to  fill, 
For  the  Lord  of  Death  with  icy  breath, 

Had  entered  in  to  kill. 

He  did  not  pass  in  purple  pomp, 

Nor  ride  a  moon-white  steed. 
Three  yards  of  cord  and  a  sliding  board 

Are  all  the  gallows'  need : 
So  with  rope  of  shame  the  Herald  came 

To  do  the  secret  deed. 

We  were  as  men  who  through  a  fen 

Of  filthy  darkness  grope : 
We  did  not  dare  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

Or  to  give  our  anguish  scope : 
Something  was  dead  in  each  of  us, 

And  what  was  dead  was  Hope. 

For  Man's  grim  Justice  goes  its  way. 

And   will  not   swerve   aside : 
It  slays  the  weak,  it  slays  the  strong. 

It  has  a  deadly  stride : 
With  iron  heel  it  slays  the  strong, 

The  monstrous  parricide  1 

We  waited  for  the  stroke  of  eight: 

Each  tongue  was  thick  with  thirst: 
For  the  stroke  of  eight  is  the  stroke  of  Fate 

That  makes  a  man  accursed, 
And  Fate  will  use  a  running  noose 

For  the  best  man  and  the  worst. 


444    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   VERSE 

We  had  no  other  thing  to  do, 
Save  to  wait  for  the  sign  to  come : 

So,  Hke  things  of  stone  in  a  valley  lone, 
Quiet   we   sat   and   dumb : 

But  each  man's  heart  beat  thick  and  quick. 
Like  a  madman  on  a  drum  1 

With   sudden   shock,    the   prison-clock 

Smote  on  the  shivering  air, 
And  from  all  the  jail  rose  up  a  wail 

Of  impotent  despair, 
Like  the  sound  that  frightened  marshes  hear 

From  some  leper  in  his  lair. 

And  as  one  sees  most  dreadful  things 

In  the  crystal  of  a  dream. 
We  saw  the  greasy  hempen  rope 

Hooked  to  the  blackened  beam, 
And  heard  the  prayer  the  hangman's  snare 

Strangled  into  a  scream. 

And  all  the  woe  that  moved  him  so 

That  he  gave  that  bitter  crj', 
And  the  wild  regrets,  and  the  bloody  sweats, 

None  knew  so  well  as  I : 
For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one 

More  deaths  than  one  must  die. 
IV 
There  is  no  chapel  on  the  day 

On  which  they  hang  a  man : 
The  Chaplain's  heart  is  far  too  sick, 

Or  his  face  is   far  too  wan. 
Or  there  is  that  written  in  his  ej'es 

Which  none  should  look  upon. 

So  they  kept  us  close  till  nigh  on  noon. 

And   then   they  rang  the  bell, 
And  the  Warders  with  their  jingling  keys 

Opened   each   listening  cell. 
And  down  the  iron  stair  we  tramped. 

Each  from  his  separate  Hell. 

Out  into  God's  sweet  air  we  went, 

But  not  in  wonted  way, 
For  this  man's  face  was  white  with  fear, 

And  that  man's   face   was  gray. 
And  I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 

So  wistfully  at  the  daj'. 


OSCAR  WILDE  445 

I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tout  of  blue 

We  prisoners  call  the  sky, 
And  at  every  careless  cloud  that  passed 

In  happy  freedom  by. 

But  there  were  those  amongst  us  all 

Who  walked  with  downcast  head, 
And  knew  that,  had  each  got  his  due, 

They  should  have  died  instead : 
He  had  but  killed  a  thing  that  lived. 

Whilst  they  had  killed  the  dead. 

For  he  who  sins  a  second  time 

Wakes  a  dead  soul  to  pain. 
And  draws  it  from  its  spotted  shroud. 

And  makes  it  bleed  again. 
And  makes  it  bleed  great  gouts  of  blood, 

And  makes  it  bleed  in  vain ! 

Like  ape  or  clown,  in  monstrous  garb 

With  crooked  arrows  starred. 
Silently  we  went  round  and  round 

The  slippery  asphalt  yard ; 
Silently  we  v/ent  round  and  round 

And  no  man  spoke  a  word. 

Silently  we  went  round  and  round, 

And  through  each  hollow  mind 
The   Memory  of  dreadful  things 

Rushed  like  a  dreadful  wind, 
And  Honor  stalked  before  each  man, 

And  Terror  crept  behind. 

The  Warders  strutted  up  and  down, 

And  kept  their  herd  of  brutes. 
Their  uniforms  were  spick  and  span, 

Thej'  wore  their  Sunday  suits, 
But  we  knew  the  work  they  had  been  at, 

By  the  quicklime  on  their  boots. 

For  where  a  grave  had  opened  wide. 

There  was  no  grave  at  all : 
Only  a  stretch  of  mud  and  sand 

By  the  hideoTis  prison-wall. 
And  all  the  while  the  burning  lime 

That  the  man  should  have  his  pall. 


446    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

For  he  has  a  pall,  this  wretched  man, 

Such   as   few  men  can   claim : 
Deep   down   below   a   prison-yard, 

Naked  for  greater  shame, 
He  lies,  with   fetters  on  each   foot, 

Wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  flame ! 

And  all  the  while  the  burning  lime 

Eats  flesh  and  bone  away, 
It  eats  the  brittle  bone  by  night, 

And  the  soft  flesh  by  day, 
It  eats  the  flesh  and  bone  by  turns. 

But  it  eats  the  heart  alway. 

For  three  long  years  they  will  not  sow 

Or  root  or  seedling  there : 
For  three  long  years  the  unblessed  spot 

Will  sterile  be   and  bare, 
And  look  upon  the  wondering  sky 

With   unreproachful   stare. 

They  think  a  murderer's  heart  would  taint 

Each   simple   seed   they   sow. 
It  is  not  true !     God's  kindly  earth 

Is  kindlier  than  men  know. 
And  the  red  rose  would  but  blow  more  red, 

The  white  rose  whiter  blow. 

Out  of  his  mouth  a  red,  red  rose! 

Out  of  his  heart  a  white  1 
For  who  can  say  by  what  strange  way 

Christ  brings   his   will  to   light. 
Since  the  barren  staff  the  pilgrim  bore 

Bloomed  in  the  great  Pope's   sight? 

But  neither  milk-white  rose  nor  red 

May  bloom   in   prison   air ; 
The  shard,  the  pebble,  and  the  flint, 

Are  what  they  give  us  there : 
For  flowers  have  been  known  to  heal 

A  common  man's   despair. 

So  never  will  wine-red  rose  or  white 

Petal  by  petal,  fall 
On  that  stretch  of  mud  and  sand  that  lies 

By  that  hideous  prison-wall, 
To  tell  the  men  who  tramp  the  yard 

That  God's  Son  died  for  all. 


OSCAR  WILDE  447 

Yet  though  the  hideous  prison-wall 

Still  hems  him  round  and  round, 
And  a  spirit  may  not  walk  by  night 

That  is   with   fetters  bound, 
And  a  spirit  may  but  weep  that  lies 

In  such  unholy  ground, 

He  is  at  peace — this  wretched  man — 

At  peace,  or  will  be  soon  : 
There  is  no  thing  to  make  him  mad, 

Nor  does  Terror  walk  at  noon, 
For  the  lampless  Earth  in  which  he  lies 

Has  neither  Sun  nor  Moon. 

They  hanged  him  as  a  beast  is  hanged : 

They  did  not  even  toll 
A  requiem  that  might  have  brought 

Rest  to  his  startled  soul. 
But  hurriedly  they  took  him  out, 

And  hid  him  in  a  hole. 

They  stripped  him  of  his  canvas  clothes. 

And  gave  him  to  the  flies  : 
They  mocked  the  swollen  purple  throat. 

And  the  stark  and  staring  ryes  : 
And  with  laughter  loud  they  heaped  the  shroud 

In  which  their  convict  lies. 

The  Chaplain  would  not  kneel  to  pray 

By  his  dishonoured  grave : 
Nor  mark  it  with  that  blessed  Cross 

That  Christ  for  sinners  gave. 
Because  the  man  was  one  of  those 

Whom  Christ  came  down  to  save. 

Yet  all  is  well ;  he  has  but  passed 

To   Life's   appointed  bourne : 
And  alien  tears  will  fill  for  him 

Pity's  long-broken  urn, 
For  his  mourners  will  be  outcast  men, 

And  outcasts  always  mourn. 


I  know  not  whether  Laws  be  right, 
Or  whether  Laws  be  wrong ; 

AH  tVi'>t  wp  know  who  He  in  jail 
Is  that  the  wall  is  strong; 

And  that  each  day  is  like  a  year, 
A  year  whose  days  are  long. 


448    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

But  this  I  know,  that  every  Law 
That  men  have  made   for  Man, 

Since  first  Man  took  his  brother's  life, 
And  this  sad  world  began, 

But  straws  the  wheat  and  saves  the  chafT 
With  a  most  evil  fan. 

This  too  I  know — and  wise  it  were 
H  each  could  know  the  same — 

That  every  prison  that  men  build 
Is  built  with  bricks  of  shame, 

And  bound  with  bars  lest  Christ  should  see 
How  men  their  brothers  maim. 

With  bars  they  blur  the  gracious  moon, 

And  blind  the  goodly  sun : 
And  they  do  well  to  hide  their  Hell, 

For  in  it  things  are  done 
That  Son  of  God  nor  son  of  Man 

Ever  should  look  upon ! 

The  vilest  deeds  like  poison  weeds 

Bloom  well  in  prison-air : 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 

That  wastes  and   withers  there : 
Pale  Anguish  keeps  the  heavy  gate, 

And  the  Warder  is  Despair. 

For  they  starve  the  little   frightened  child. 
Till   it  weeps  both   night  and   day : 

And  they  scourge  the  weak,  and  flog  the  fool, 
And  gibe  the  old  and  gray. 

And  some  grow  mad,  and  all  grow  bad, 
And  none  a  word  may  say. 

Each  narrow  cell  in  which  we  dwell 

Is  a  foul  and  dark  latrine. 
And  the  fetid  breath  of  living  Death 

Chokes  up  each  grated  screen. 
And  all,  but  Lust,  is  turned  to  dust 

In  Humanity's  machine. 

The  brackish  water  that  we  drink 
Creeps   with   a   loathsome   slime. 

And  the  bitter  bread  they  weigh  in  scales 
Is  full  of  chalk  and  lime. 

And  Sleep  will  not  lie  down,  but  walks 
Wild-ej^ed,  and  cries  to  Time. 


OSCAR  WILDE  449 

But  though  lean  Hunger  and  green  Thirst 

Like  asp  with  adder  fight, 
We  have  httlc  care  of  prison  fare, 

For  what  chills  and  kills  outright 
Is  that  every  stone  one  lifts  by  day 

Becomes  one's  heart  by  night. 

With  midnight  always  fn  one's  heart, 

And  twilight  in  one's  cell, 
We  turn  the  crank,  or  tear  the  rope, 

Each  in  his  separate  Hell. 
And  the  silence  is  more  awful   far 

Than  the  sound  of  a  brazen  bell. 

And  never  a  human  voice  comes  near 

To  speak  a  gentle  word : 
And  the  eye  that  watches  through  the  door 

Is  pitiless  and  hard : 
And  by  all  forgot,  we  rot  and  rot, 

With  soul  and  body  marred. 

And  thus  we  rust  Life's  iron  chain. 

Degraded  and  alone : 
And  some  men  curse,  and  some  men  weep. 

And  some  men  make  no  moan : 
But  God's  eternal  Laws  are  kind 

And  break  the  heart  of  stone. 

And  every  human  heart  that  breaks, 

In  prison-cell  or  yard, 
Is  as  that  broken  box  that  gave 

Its  treasure  to  the  Lord, 
And  filled  the  unclean  leper's  house 

With  the  scent  of  costliest  nard. 

Ah !  happy  they  whose  hearts  can  break 

And  peace  of  pardon  win!_ 
How  else  may  man  make  straight  his  plan 

And  cleanse  his  soul  from  Sin? 
How  else  but  through  a  broken  heart 

May  Lord  Christ  enter  in? 

And  he  of  the  swollen  purple  throat. 

And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes, 
Waits   for  the  holy  hands   that  took 

The  Thief  to  Paradise ;_ 
And  a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart 

The  Lord  will  not  despise. 


450    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  man  in  red  who  reads  the  Law 

Gave  him  three  weeks  of  life. 
Three  little  weeks  in  which  to  heal 

His  soul  of  his  soul's  strife, 
And  cleanse  from  every  blot  of  blood 

The  hand  that  held  the  knife. 

And  with  tears  of  blood  he  cleansed  the  hand, 

The  hand  that  held  the  steel : 
For  only  blood  can  wipe  out  blood, 

And  only  tears  can  heal : 
And  the  crimson  stain  that  was  of  Cain 

Became  Christ's  snow-white  seal. 


In  Reading  gaol  by  Reading  town 

There  is  a  pit  of  shame. 
And  in  it  lies  a  wretched  man 

Eaten  by  teeth  of  flame, 
In  a  burning  winding-sheet  he  lies 

And  his  grave  has  got  no  name. 

And  there,  till  Christ  call  forth  the  dead. 

In  silence  let  him  lie : 
No  need  to  waste  the  foolish  tear, 

Or  heave  the   windy  sigh : 
The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved, 

And  so  he  had  to  die. 

And  all  men  kill  the  thing  they  love, 

By  all  let  this  be  heard. 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 

Some  with   a   flattering  word. 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss. 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword  1 


Requ'iescat 

THREAD  lightly,  she  is  near, 

Under  the  snow ; 
Speak  gently,  she  can  hear 
The  daisies  grow. 

All  her  bright  golden  hair 
Tarnished   with   rust. 

She  that  was  young  and  fair 
Fallen  to  dust. 


OSCAR  WILDE  451 

Lily-like,  white  as  snow. 

She  hardly  knew 
She  was  a  woman,  so 

Sweetly  she  grew. 

Coffin-board,  heavy  stone* 

Lie  on  her  breast; 
I  vex  my  heart  alone, 

She  is  at  rest. 
Peace,  peace ;  she  cannot  hear 

Lyre  or  sonnet ; 
All  my  life's  buried  here — 

Heap  earth  upon  it. 

Sonnet  to  Liberty 

■^"OT  that  I  love  thy  children,  whose  dull  eyes 
•'■^    See  nothing  but  their  own  unlovely  woe, 
Whose  minds  know  nothing,  nothing  care  to  know, — 
But  that  the  roar  of  thy  Democracies, 
Thy  reigns  of  Terror,  thy  great  Anarchies, 
Mirror  my  wildest  passions  like  the  sea 

And  give  my  rage  a  brother 1     Liberty  1 

For  this  sake  only  do  thy  dissonant  cries 
Delight  my  discreet  soul,  else  might  all  kings 
By  bloody  knout  or  treacherous  cannonades 
Rob  nations  of  their  rights  inviolate 
And  I  remain  unmoved — and  yet,  and  yet. 
These  Christs  that  die  upon  the  barricades, 
God  knows  it  I  am  with  them,  in  some  things. 

On  the  Recent  Sale  by  Auction  of  Keats' 
Love  Letters 

'T'HESE  are  the  letters  which  Endymion  wrote 
To  one  he  loved  in  secret  and  apart. 
And  now  the  brawlers  of  the  auction  mart 

Bargain  and  bid  for  each  poor  blotted  note. 

Aye !  for  each  separate  pulse  of  passion  quote 
The  merchant's  price.    I  think  they  love  not  art 
Who  break  the  crystal  of  a  poet's  heart 

That  small  and  sickly  eyes  may  glare  and  gloat. 

Is  it  not  said  that  many  years  ago. 

In  a  far  Eastern  town,  some  soldiers  ran 
With  torches  through  the  midnight,  and  began 

To  wrangle  for  mean  raiment,  and  to  throw 
Dice  for  the  garments  of  a  wretched  man. 

Not  knowing  the  God's  wonder,  or  His  woe. 


452    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
The  Harlot's  House 

"fX^E   caupht  the    tread   of   dancing   feet, 
'  '     We  loitered  down  the  moonlit  street, 
And  stopped  beneath  the  Harlot's  house. 

Inside,  above  the  din  and  fray, 
We  heard  the  loud  musicians  play 
The  "Treues  Liebes  Herz,"  of  Strauss. 

Like  strange  mechanical  grotesques, 

Making  fantastic  arabesques, 

The  shadows  raced  across  the  blind. 

We  watched  the  ghostly  dances  spin 

To  sound  of  horn  and  violin, 

Like  black  leaves  wheeling  in  the  wind. 

Like  wire-pulled  automatons. 

Slim  silhouetted  skeletons 

Went  sidling  through  the  slow  quadrille. 

Then  took  each  other  by  the  hand, 
And  danced  a  stately  saraband ; 
Their  laughter  echoed  thin  and  shrill. 

Sometimes  a  clock-work  puppet  pressed 
A  phantom  lover  to  her  breast. 
Sometimes  they  seemed  to  try  to  sing. 

Sometimes  a  horrible  marionette 
Came  out,  and  smoked  its  cigarette 
Upon  the  steps,  like  a  live  thing. 

Then  turning  to  my  love  I  said, 
"The  dead  are  dancing  with  the  dead, 
The  dust  is  whirling  with  the  dust." 

But  she,  she  heard  the  violin, 
And  left  my  side  and  entered  in : 
Love  passed  into  the  house  of  lust. 

Then  suddenly  the  tune  went  false, 
The  dancers  wearied  of  the  waltz, 
The  shadows  ceased  to  wheel  and  whirl. 

And  down  the  long  and  silent  street, 
The  dawn  with  silver-sandalled  feet. 
Crept  like  a  frightened  girl. 


JOHN  DAVIDSON  453 

JOHN  DAVIDSON  (1857-1909) 
A  Ballad  of  a  Nun 

pROM  Eastertide  to  Eastertide 
•'■        For  ten  long:  years  her  patient  knees 
Engraved  the   stones — the   fittest  bride 
Of  Christ  in  all  the  diocese. 

She  conquered  every  earthly  lust; 

The  abbess  loved  her  more  and  more; 
And,  as  mark  of  perfect  trust, 

Made  her  the  keeper  of  the  door. 

High  on  a  hill  the  convent  hung, 

Across  a  duchy  looking  down. 
Where  everlasting  mountains  flung 

Their  shadows  over  tower  and  town. 

The  jewels  of  their  lofty  snows 

In  constellations  flashed  at  night; 
Above  their  crests  the  moon  arose ; 

The  deep  earth  shuddered  with  delight. 

Long  ere  she  left  her  cloudy  bed. 

Still  dreaming  in  the  orient  land. 
On  many  a  mountain's  happy  head 

Dawn  lightly  laid  her  rosy  hand. 

The  adventurous  sun  took  Heaven  by  storm ; 

Clouds  scattered  largesses  of  rain ; 
The  sounding  cities,  rich  and  warm, 

Smouldered  and  glittered  in  the  plain. 

Sometimes  it  was  a  wandering  wind. 

Sometimes  the  fragrance  of  the  pine, 
Sometimes  the  thought  how  others  sinned, 

That  turned  her  sweet  blood  into  wine. 

Sometimes  she  heard  a  serenade 

Complaining  sweetly  far  away: 
She  said,  "A  young  man  woos  a  maid"; 

And  dreamt  of  love  till  break  of  day. 

Then  would  she  ply  her  knotted  scourge 

Until  she  swooned ;  but  evermore 
She  had  the  same  red  sin  to  purge. 

Poor,  passionate  keeper  of  the  door! 


4o4    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

For  still  night's  starry  scroll  unfurled, 
And  still  the  day  came  like  a  flood : 

It  was  the  greatness  of  the  world 
That  made  her  long  to  use  her  blood. 

In  winter-time  when  Lent  drew  nigh, 
And  hill  and  plain  were  wrapped  in  snow, 

She  watched  beneath  the  frosty  sky 
The  nearest  city  nightly  glow. 

Like  peals  of  airy  bells  outworn 
Faint  laughter  died  above  her  head 

In  gusts  of  broken  music  borne: 
"They  keep  the   Carnival,"  she  said. 

Her  hungry  heart  devoured  the  town : 

"Heaven  save  me  by  a  miracle ! 
Unless   God   sends   an   angel   down, 

Thither  I  go  though  it  were  Hell." 

She  dug  her  nails  deep  in  her  breast, 

Sobbed,  shrieked,  and  straight  withdrew  the  bar: 

A  fledgling  flying   from  the  nest, 
A  pale  moth  rushing  to  a  star. 

Fillet  and  veil  in  strips  she  tore ; 

Her  golden  tresses  floated  wide ; 
The  ring  and  bracelet  that  she  wore 

As  Christ's  betrothed,  she  cast  aside. 

"Life's  dearest  meaning  I  shall  probe ; 

Lo !  I  shall  taste  of  love  at  last! 
Away!"  She  doffed  her  outer  robe. 

And  sent  it  sailing  down  the  blast. 

Her  body  seemed  to  warm  the  wii;id ; 

With  bleeding  feet  o'er  ice  she  ran ; 
"I   leave  the  righteous   God  behind ; 

I  go  to  worship  sinful  man." 

She  reached  the  sounding  city's  gate ; 

No  question  did  the  warder  ask : 
He  passed  her  in :     "Welcome,  wild  mate  1" 

He  thought  her  some  fantastic  mask. 

Half-naked  through  the  town  she  went; 

Each   footstep  left  a  bloody  mark ; 
Crowds  followed  her  with  looks  intent ; 

Her  bright  eyes  made  the  torches  dark. 


JOHN  DAVIDSON  455 

Alone  and  watching  in  the  street 

There  stood  a  grave  youth  nobly  dressed ; 

To  him  she  knelt  and  kissed  his  feet ; 
Her  face  her  great  desire  confessed. 

Straight  to  his  house  the  nun  he  led : 
"Strange  lady,  what  would  you   with   me?" 

"Your  love,  your  love,  sweet  lord,"  she  said ; 
"I  bring  you  my  virginity." 

He  healed  her  bosom  with  a  kiss ; 

She  gave  him  all  her  passion's  hoard ; 
And   sobbed  and   murmured  ever,  "This 

Is   life's  great  meaning,  dear,   my  lord. 

"I  care  not  for  my  broken  vow ; 

Though  God  should  come  in  thunder  soon, 
I  am  sister  to  the  mountains  now. 

And  sister  to  the  sun  and  moon." 

Through  all  the  towns  of  Belmarie 

She  made  a  progress  like  a  queen. 
"She  is,"  they  said,  "whate'er  she  be, 

The  strangest  woman  ever  seen. 

"From   fairyland  she  must  have  come, 

Or  else  she  is  a  mermaiden." 
Some  said  she  was  a  ghoul,  and  some 

A  heathen  goddess  born  again. 

But  soon  her  fire  to  ashes  burned ; 

Her  beauty  changed  to  haggardness ; 
Her  golden  hair  to  silver  turned  ; 

The  hour  came  of  her  last  caress. 

At  midnight  from  her  lonely  bed 

She  rose,  and   said,   "I  have  had  my  will." 

The  old  ragged  robe  she  donned,  and  fled 
Back  to  the  convent  on  the  hill. 

Half-naked  as  she  went  before, 

She  hurried  to  the  city  wall, 
Unnoticed  in  the  rush  and  roar 

And  splendour  of  the  carnival. 

No  question  did  the  warder  ask: 

Her  ragged  robe,  her  shrunken  limb, 
Her  dreadful  eyes!     "It  is  no  mask; 

It  is  a  she-wolf,  gaunt  and  grim !" 


456    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

She  ran   across  the  icy  plain ; 

Her  worn  blood  curdled  in  the  blast ; 
Each   footstep  left  a  crimson   stain ; 

The  white-faced  moon  looked  on  aghast. 

She  said  between  her  chattering  jaws, 
"Deep  peace  is  mine,  I  cease  to  strive; 

Oh,  comfortable  convent  laws, 
That  bury  foolish  nuns  alive  1 

"A  trowel  for  mj^  passing-bell, 

A  little  bed  within  the  wall, 
A  coverlet  of  stones;  how  well 

I  there  shall  keep  the  Carnival !" 

Like  tired  bells  chiming  in  their  sleep. 
The  wind  faint  peals  of  laughter  bore : 

She  stopped  her  ears  and  climbed  the  steep, 
And  thundered  at  the  convent  door. 

It  opened  straight ;   she  entered  in, 
And  at  the  wardress'  feet  fell  prone: 

"I  come  to  purge  away  my  sin ; 
Bury  me,  close  me  up  in  stone." 

The  wardress  raised  her  tenderly ; 

She  touched  her  wet  and  fast-shut  eyes : 
"Look,  sister ;   sister,   look  at  me : 

Look,  can  j'ou  see  through  my  disguise?" 

She  looked  and  saw  her  own  sad  face. 

And  trembled,  wondering,  "Who  art  thou?" 

"God  sent  me  down  to  fill  your  place : 
I  am  the  Virgin  Mary  now." 

And  with  the  word,  God's  mother  shone : 
The   wanderer   whispered,   "Mary,   hail !" 

The  vision  helped  her  to  put  on 
Bracelet  and  fillet,  ring  and  veil. 

"You  are  sister  to  the  mountains  now, 
And  sister  to  the  day  and  night ; 

Sister  to  God."     And  on  the  brow 

She  kissed  her  thrice,  and  left  her  sight. 

While  dreaming  in  her  cloudy  bed. 

Far  in  the  crimson  orient  land. 
On  many  a  mountain's   happy  head 

Dawn  lightly  laid  her  rosy  hand. 


JOHN  DAVIDSON  457 

Butterflies 

AT  sixteen  years  she  knew  no  care; 

How  could  she,  sweet  and  pure  as  light? 
And  there  pursued  her  everywhere 
Butterflies  all  white. 

A  lover  looked.     She  dropped  her  eyes 
That  glowed  like  pansies  wet  with  dew ; 

And  lo,  there  came  from  out  the  skies 
Butterflies  all  blue. 

Before   she  guessed  her  heart  was  gone; 

The  tale  of  love  was  swiftly  told; 
And  all  about  her  wheeled  and  shone 

Butterflies  all  gold. 

Then  he  forsook  her  one  sad  morn ; 

She  wept  and  sobbed,  "Oh,  love,  come  back!" 
There  only  came  to  her  forlorn 

Butterflies  all  black. 

From  "The  Testament  of  John  Davidson" 

"^"ONE  should  outlive  his  power.  .  .  .  Who  kills 
Himself  subdues  the  conqueror  of  kings: 
Exempt  from  death  is  he  who  takes  his  life: 
My  time  has  come.  .  .  . 

By  my  own   will  alone 
The  ethereal  substance,  which  I  am,  attained, 
And  now  by  my  own  sovereign   will,   forgoes, 
Seif-consciousness ;    and   thus   are   men   supreme. 
No  other  living  thing  can  choose  to  die. 
This   franchise  and  this  high  prerogative 
I  show  the  world : — Men  are  the  Universe 
Aware  at  last,  and  must  not  live  in  fear, 
Slaves  of  the  seasons,  padded,  bolstered  up, 
Clystered  and  drenched  and  dieted  and  drugged ; 
Or  hateful  victims  of  senilitj'. 

Toothless  and  like  an  infant  checked  and  schooled; 
Or  in  the  dungeon  of  a  sick  room  drained 
By  some  tabescent  horror  in  their  prime ; 
But  when  the  tide  of  life  begins  to  turn, 
Before  the  treason  of  the  ebbing  wave 
Divulges  refuse  and  the  barren  shore, 
Upon  the  very  period  of  the  flood, 
Stand  out  to  sea  and  bend  our  weathered  sail, 
Against  the   sunset,   valiantly  resolved 
To  win  the  heaven  of  eternal  night. 


458    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
From  "Fleet  Street  Eclogues'' 

AT  early  dawn  through  London  you  must  go 

Until  you  come  where  long  black  hedgerows  grow, 
With  pink  buds  pearled,  with  here  and  there  a  tree. 

And  gates  and  stiles;  and  watch  good  country  folk; 

And  scent  the  spicy  smoke 
Of  withered  weeds  that  burn  where  gardens  be ; 
And  in  a  ditch  perhaps  a  primrose  see. 
The  rocks  shall  stalk  the  plough,  larks  mount  the  skies, 

Blackbirds  and  speckled  thrushes  sing  aloud, 

Hid  in  the  warm  white  cloud 
Mantling  the  thorn,  and  far  away  shall  rise 
The  milky  low  of  cows  and  farmyard  cries. 
From  windy  heavens  the  climbing  sun  shall  shine, 

And  February  greet  you  like  a  maid 

In  russet-cloak  arrayed ; 
And  you  shall  take  her  for  your  mistress  fine, 
And  pluck  a  crocus   for  her  valentine. 

E.  NESBIT  (MRS.  HUBERT  BLAND)   (1858-        ) 

TF  on  some  balmy  summer  night 

You  rowed  across  the  moon-path  white. 
And  saw  the  shining  sea  grow  fair 
With  silver  scales  and  golden  hair — 
What  would  you  do? 

I  would  be  wise 
And  shut  my  ears  and  shut  my  eyes, 
Lest  I  should  leap  into  the  tide 
And  clasp  the  sea-maid  as  I  died. 
But,  if  you  thus  were  strong  to  flee 
From  sweet  spells  woven  of  moon  and  sea. 
Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  would  reach, 
Without  one  backward   look  the  beach? 
I  might  look  back,  my  dear,  aijd  then 
Row_  straight  into  the  snare  again ; 
Or,  if   I   safely  got  away — 
Regret  it  to  my  dying  day. 

WILLIAM  WATSON   (1858-        ) 

Song 

A  PRIL,  April, 

■^^  Laugh  thy  girlish  laughter ; 
Then,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  girlish  tears  I 


WILLIAM  WATSON  459 

April,  that  mine  ears 
Like  a  lover  grcetest, 
If  I  tell  thee,  sweetest. 
All  my  hopes  and  fears, 
April,  April, 

Laugh  thy  golden  laughter, 
But,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  golden  tears ! 


From  "JVordsworth's  Grave' 


'T'HE  old  rude  church,  with  bare,  bald  tower,  is  here; 

Beneath  its  shadow  high-born  Rotha  flows ; 
Rotha,  remembering  well  who  slumbers  near, 
And  with  cool  murmur  lulling  his  repose. 

Rotha,  remembering  well  who  slumbers  near. 

His  hills,  his  lakes,  his  streams  are  with  him  yet. 
Surely  the  heart  that  reads  her  own  heart  clear 

Nature  forgets  not  soon :  'tis  we  forget. 

We  that  with  vagrant  soul  his  fixity 

Have  slighted;  faithless,  done  his  deep  faith  wrong; 
Left  him   for  poorer  loves,   and  bowed  the  knee 

To  misbegotten  strange  new  gods  of  song. 

Yet,  led  by  hollow  ghost  or  beckoning  elf 
Far  from  her  homestead  to  the  desert  bourn, 

The  vagrant  soul  returning  to  herself 
Wearily  wise,  must  needs  to  him  return. 

To  him  and  to  the  powers  that  with  him  dwell  :— 
Inflowings  that  divulged  not  whence  they  came ; 

And  that  secluded   Spirit  unknowable. 

The  mystery  we  make  darker  with  a  name : 

The  Somewrhat  which  we  name  but  cannot  know, 

Even  as  We  name  a  star  and  only  see 
His  quenchless   flashings   forth,  which  ever  show 

And  ever  hide  him,  and  which  are  not  he. 


Poet  who  sleepest  by  this  wandering  wave! 

When  thou  wast  born,  what  birth-gift  hadst  thou  then? 
To  thee  what  wealth  was  that  the  Immortals  gave, 

The  wealth  thou  gavest  in  thy  turn  to  men? 


460    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Not  Milton's  keen,  translunar  music  thine ; 

Not  Shakespeare's  cloudless,  boundless  human  view; 
Not  Shelley's  flush  of  rose  on  peaks  divine ; 

Nor  yet  the  wizard  twilight  Coleridge  knew. 

What  hadst  thou  that  could  make  so  large  amends 
For  all  thou  hadst  not  and  thy  peers  possessed, 

Motion  and  fire,  swift  means  to  radiant  ends? — 
Thou  hadst,  for  weary  feet,  the  gift  of  rest. 

From  Shelley's  dazzling  glow  or  thunderous  haze, 
From   Byron's   tempest-anger,   tempest-mirth. 

Men  turned  to  thee  and   found — not  blast  and  blaze, 
Tumult  of  tottering  heavens,  but  peace  on  earth. 

Nor  peace  that  grows  by  Lethe,  scentless  flower. 
There  in  white  languors  to  decline  and  cease ; 

But  peace  whose  names  are  also  rapture,  power, 
Clear  sight,  and  love :   for  these  are  parts  of  peace. 

Abridged. 


From  "Epigrams" 

'X'HE  beasts  in  field  are  glad,  and  have  not  wit 

To    know    why    leap'd    their    hearts    when    spring-time 
shone. 
Man  looks  at  his  own  bliss,  considers  it. 
Weighs  it  with  curious  fingers ;  and  'tis  gone. 

*  I  ""HINK  not  thy  wisdom  can  illume  away 

The  ancient  tanglement  of  night  and  day. 
Enough,  to  acknowledge  both,  and  both  revere : 
They  see  not  clearliest  who  see  all  things  clear. 

A/JOMENTOUS  to  himself  as  I  to  mc 

Hath  each  man  been  that  ever  woman  bore ; 
Once,  in  a  lightning-flash  of  sympathy, 
I  felt  this  truth,  an  instant,  and  no  more. 


{After  Reading  "Tambcrlaine   the   Great") 

T  close  your  Marlowe's  page,  my  Shakespeare's  ope. 
How   welcome — after   gong  and  cymbal's   din — 
The  continuity,  the  long  slow  slope 
And  vast  curves  of  the  gradual  violin ! 


WILLIAM  WATSON  461 

(Shelley   and   Harriet    IVesthrook) 

A  great  star  stoop'd  from  heaven  and  loved  a  flower 
■^^  Grown   in  earth's  garden — loved  it   for  an  hour: 
Let  eyes  which  trace  his  orhit  in  the  spheres 
Refuse  not,  to  a  ruin'd  rosebud,  tears. 

{To  a  foolish  IVise  Man) 

TPHE  world's  an  orange — thou  hast  suck'd  its  juice ; 

But  wherefore  all  this  pomp  and  pride  and  puffing? 
Somehow  a  goose  is  none  the  less  a  goose 
Though  moon  and  stars  be  minc'd  to  yield  it  stuffing. 

J  tit  limn 

TPHOU  burden  of  all  songs  the  earth  hath  sung, 
Thou  retrospect  in  Time's  reverted  eyes, 
Thou  metaphor  of  everything  that  dies, 
That  dies  ill-starred,  or  dies  beloved  and  young 

And  therefore  blest  and  wise, — 
O  be  less  beautiful,  or  be  less  brief. 

Thou  magic  splendour,  strange,  and   full  of   fear  I 
In  vain  her  pageant  shall  the  Summer  rear? 
At  thy  mute  signal,  leaf  by  golden  leaf. 
Crumbles  the  gorgeous  year. 

Ah,  ghostly  as  remembered  mirth,  the  tale 

Of  Summer's  bloom,  the  legend  of  the  Spring! 

And  thou,  too.  flutterest  an  impatient  wing, 
Thou  presence  yet  more  fugitive  and  frail. 

Thou  most  unbodied  thing. 
Whose  very  being  is  thy  going  hence. 

And  passage  and   departure  all  thy  theme ; 

Whose  life  doth  still  a  splendid  dying  seem, 
And  thou  at  height  of  thy  magnificence 
A  figment  and  a  dream. 

Stilled  is  the  virgin  rapture  that  was  June, 

And  cold  is  August's  panting  heart  of  fire; 

And  in  the  storm-dismantled   forest-choir 
For  thine  own  elegy  thy  winds  attune 

Their  wild  and  wizard  lyre : 
And  poignant  grows  the  charm  of  thy  decay, 

The  pathos  of  thy  beauty,  and  the  sting, 

Thou  parable  of  greatness  vanishing! 
For  me,  thy  woods  of  gold  and  skies  of  grey 
With  speech  fantastic  ring. 


462    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

For  me,  to  dreams  resigned,  there  come  and  go, 

'Twixt  mountains  draped  and  hooded  night  and  morn, 
Elusive  notes  in  wandering  wafture  borne, 

From  undiscoverable  lips  that  blow 
An  immaterial  horn ; 

And  spectral  seem  thy  winter-boding  trees, 
Thy  ruinous  bowers  and  drifted  foliage  wet— 
O  Past  and  Future  in  sad  bridal  met, 

O  voice  of  everything  that  perishes, 
And  soul  of  all  regret! 


Nightmare   {Written  During  Apparent  Im- 
minence of  JFar) 

TN  a  false  dream  I  saw  the  Foe  prevail. 

The  war  was  ended :  the  last  smoke  had  rolled 
Away:  and  we,  erewhile  the  strong  and  bold, 
Stood  broken,  humbled,  withered,  weak  and  pale, 
And  moaned,  "Our  greatness  is  become  a  tale 
To  tell  our  children's  babes  when  we  are  old. 
They  shall  put  by  their  playthings  to  be  told 
How  England  once,  before  the  years  of  bale, 
Throned  above  trembling,  puissant,  grandiose,  calm, 
Held  Asia's  richest  jewel  in  her  palm; 
And  with   unnumbered   isles  barbaric   she 
The  broad  hem  of  her  glistening  robe  impearled  ; 
Then,  when  she  wound  her  arms  about  the  world, 
And  had  for  vassal  the  obsequious  sea." 


To  the  Sultan 

/^ALIPH.  I  did  thee  wrong.    I  hailed  thee  late 

"Abdul  the  Damned",  and  would  recall  my  word. 
It  merged  thee  with  the  unillustrious  herd 
Who  crowd  the  approaches  to  the  infernal  gate — 
Spirits  gregarious,  equal  in  their  state 
As  is  the  innumerable  ocean  bird, 
Gannet  or  gull,  whose  wandering  plaint  is  heard 
On  Ailsa  or  lona  desolate. 
For,  in  a  world  where  cruel  deeds  abound, 
The  merely  damned  are  legion:  with   such  souls 
Is  not  each  hollow  and  cranny  of  Tophet  crammed? 
Thou,  with  the  brightest  of  Hell's  aureoles 
Dost  shine  supreme,  incomparably  crowned, 
Immortally,  beyond  all  mortals,  damned. 


ALFRED  EDWARD  HOUSMAN  463 

ALFRED  EDWARD  HOUSMAN   (1859-        ) 
From  "A  Shropshire  Lad'* 

**TS  my  team  ploughing, 

That  I  was  used  to  drive 
And  hear  the  harness  jingle 
When  I  was  man  alive?" 

Ay,  the  horses  trample, 

The  harness  jingles  now; 
No  change  though  you  lie  under 

The  land  you  used  to  plough. 

"Is  football  playing 

Along  the  river  shore, 
With  lads  to  chase  the  leather, 

Now  I  stand  up  no  more?" 

Ay,  the  ball  is  flying. 

The  lads  play  heart  and  soul; 
The  goal  stands  up,  the  keeper 

Stands  up  to  keep  the  goal. 

"Is  my  girl  happy, 

That  I  thought  hard  to  leave, 
And  has  she  tired  of  weeping 

As  she  lies  down  at  eve?" 

Ay.  she  lies  down  lightly, 

She  lies  not  down  to  weep : 
Your  girl  is  well  contented. 

Be  still,  my  lad,  and  sleep, 

"Is  my  friend  hearty, 

Now  I  am  thin  and  pine, 
And  has  he  found  to  sleep  in 

A  better  bed  than  mine?" 

Yes,  lad,  I  lie  easy, 

I  lie  as  lads  would  choose; 
I  cheer  a  dead  man's  sweetheart, 

Never  ask  me  whose. 


The  Power  of  Malt 

"^^"W^,  if  'tis  dancing  you  would  be. 
There's  brisker  pipes  than  poetry. 
Say,  for  what  were  hop-yards  meant, 


464    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Or  why  was  Burton  built  on  Trent? 
Oh,  mail}'  a  peer  of  England  brews 
Livelier  liquor  than  the  Muse, 
And  malt  does  more  than  Milton  can 
To  justify  God's  ways  to  man. 
Ale,  man,  ale's  the  stuiif  to  drink 
For  fellows  whom  it  hurts  to  think : 
Look  into  the  pewter  pot 
To  see  the  world  as  the  world's  not. 

With  Rue  My  Heart  Is  Laden 

"17[^ITH   rue  my  heart   is  laden 
'  '         For  golden  friends  I  had, 
For  many  a  rose-lipt  maiden 
And  many  a  lightfoot  lad. 

By  brooks  too  broad  for  leaping 
The  lightfoot  boys  are  laid ; 

The  rose-lipt  girls  are  sleeping 
In  fields  where  roses  fade. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON   (1860-1907) 

The  Hound  of  Heaven 

T  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  j^ears ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind;  and  in  the  midst  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes   I   sped; 
And  shot,  precipitated 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears, 
From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  followed  after. 
But  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace. 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 
More  instant  than  the  Feet — 
"All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me." 

I  pleaded,  outlaw-wise, 
By  many  a  hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 

Trellised  with  intertwining  charities ; 
(For,  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed, 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 
Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside)  ; 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  465 

But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide, 

The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to. 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled, 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateways  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  clanged  bars ; 
Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 
And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  o'  the  moon. 
I  said  to  dawn.  Be  sudden ;  to  eve,  Be  soon ; 
With  thy  young  skiey  blossoms  heap  me  over 
From  this  tremendous  Lover  I 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see ! 

I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy. 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me. 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit. 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue; 
Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 

But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  the  blue ; 
Or  whether,  Thunder-driven, 
They  clanged  his  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven 
Flashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  o'  their  feet : — 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace. 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
Came  on  the  following  Feet, 
And  a  Voice  above  their  beat — 
"Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter  Me." 

I  sought  no  more  that  after  which  I  strayed 

In  face  of  man  or  maid; 
But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems   something,    something  that   replies ; 
They  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me  I 
I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully; 
But,  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 

With  dawning  answers  there, 
Their  angel  plucked  them  from  me  by  the  hair. 
"Come  then,  ye  other  children,  Nature's— share 
With  me"  (said  I)   "your  delicate  fellowship; 
Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip. 
Let  me  twine  you  with  caresses, 

Wantoning 
With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses, 

Banqueting 
With  her  in  her  wind-walled  palace. 
Underneath  her  azure  dais. 
Quaffing,  as  your  taintless  way  is. 


466    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

From  a  chalice 
Lucent-weeping  out  of  the  dayspring." 

So  it  was  done : 
I  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one- 
Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 
I  knew  all  the  swift  importings 

On  the  wilful  face  of  skies, 
I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise 
Spumed  of  the  wild  sea-snortings ; 

All  that's  born  or  dies 
Rose  and  drooped  with — made  them  shapers 
Of  mine  own  moods,  or  wailful  or  divine — 
With  them  joyed  and  was  bereaven. 
I  was  heavy  with  the  even, 
When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 
Round  the  day's  dead  sanctities. 
I  laughed  in  the  morning's  eyes. 
I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather, 
Heaven  and  I  wept  together, 
And  its  sweet  tears  were  salt  with  mortal  mine; 
Against  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 
I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 
And  share  commingling  heat ; 
But  not  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human  smart 
In  vain  my  tears  were  wet  on  Heaven's  gray  cheek. 
For  ah !  we  know  not  what  each  other  says, 

These  thmgs  and  I ;  in  sound  /  speak — 
Their  sound  is  but  their  stir,  they  speak  by  silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drouth ; 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me. 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  o'  her  tenderness : 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 
My  thirstmg  mouth. 
Nigh  and  dry  draws  the  chase, 
With  unperturbed  pace. 
Deliberate   speed,   majestic  instancy; 
And  past  those  noised  Feet 
A  voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
"Lo !  naught  contents  thee,  who  content'st  not  Me." 

Naked   I  wait  Thy  love's   uplifted  stroke ! 
My  harness  piece  by  piece  Thou  hast  hewn  from  me, 
And  smitten  me  to  my  knee ; 

I  am   defenseless   utterly. 

I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
And.  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihood  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  467 

And  pulled  my  life  upon  me ;  grimed  with  smears 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke, 
Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun-starts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  each  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist; 
Even  the  linked  fantasies,  in  whose  blossomy  twist 
I  swung  the  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist, 
Are  yielding;  cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed. 

Ah  I  is  Thy  love  mdeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount? 

Ah !  must — 

Designer  infinite ! — 
Ah  1  must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst  limn  with  it? 
My  freshness  spent  its  wavering  shower  i'  the  dust: 
And  now  my  heart  is  as  a  broken  fount. 
Wherein  tear-drippings   stagnate,   spilt   down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 
Upon  the  sighful  branches  of  my  mind. 

Such  is;  what  is  to  be? 
The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in  mists  confounds: 
Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 
From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity; 
Those   shaken   mists    a   space   unsettle,   then 
Round  the  half-glimpsed  turrets  slowly  wash  again. 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 

I  first  have  seen,  enwound 
With  glooming  robes  purpureal,  cypress-crowned; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  that  yields 

Thre  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest  fields 

Be  dunged  with  rotten  death? 

Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit ; 
That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  bursting  sea. 
"And  is  thy  earth  so  marred, 
Shattered  in  shard  on  shard? 
Lo,  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  flyest  Me! 
Strnnpe.  piteous,  futile  thing. 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught"   ("He  said), 
"And  human  love  needs  human  meriting: 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot? 
Alack,  thou  knowest  not 


468    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee 

Save  Me,  save  only  Me? 
All  which  I  took  from  thee,  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms, 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home ; 
Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come  1" 
Halts  by  me  that  footfall: 
Is  my  gloom,  after  all. 
Shade  of  His  hand,  outstretched  caressingly? 
"Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  weakest, 
I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest ! 
Thou  dravest  love  from  thee,   who  dravest  Me." 

To  a  Snowflake 

"^l/'HAT  heart  could  have  thought  you? — 

Past  our  devisal 
(O   filigree  petal!) 
Fashioned  so  purely 
Fragilely,  surely, 
From  what  Paradisal 
Imagineless  metal, 
Too  costly  for  cost? 
Who  hammered  you,  wrought  you, 
From  argentine  vapour? — 
"God  was  my  shapcr, 
Passing  surmisal. 
He  hammered,  He  wrought  me, 
From  curled  silver  vapour, 
To  lust  of  His  Mind : — 
Thou  could'st  not  have  thought  me  I 
So  purely,  so  palely, 
Tinily.  surely. 
Mightily,   frailly 
Insculped  and  embossed, 
With  His  hammer  of  wind 
And  His  graver  of  frost." 

Arab  Love-Song 

TTHE  hunched  camels  of  the  night 

Trouble  the  bright 
And  silver  waters  of  the  moon. 
The  maiden  of  the  moon  will  soon 
Through  Heaven  stray  and  sing, 
Star  gathering. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  469 

Now  while  the  dark  about  our  love  is  strewn, 
Light  of  my  dark,  blood  of  my  heart,  O  come! 
And  night  will  catch  her  breath  up,  and  be  dumb. 

Leave  thy  father,  leave  thy  mother 

And  thy  brother ; 

Leave  the  black  tents  of  thy  tribe  apart  1 

Am  I  not  thy  father  and  thy  brother. 

And  thy  mother? 

And  thou — what  needest  with  thy  tribe's  black  tents 

Who  hast  the  red  pavilion  of  my  heart? 

Daisy 

■^X/TIERE  the  thistle  lifts   a  purple  crown 
"^         Six  foot  out  of  the  turf. 
And  the  harebell  shakes  on  the  windy  hill — 
O  the  breath  of  the  distant  surf! — 

The  hills  look  over  on  the  South, 

And  southward  dreams  the  sea. 
And  with  the  sea-breeze  hand  in  hand 

Came  innocence  and  she. 

Where  'mid  the  gorse  the  raspberry 

Red  for  the  gatherer  springs. 
Two  children  did  we  stray  and  talk 

Wise,  idle,  childish  things. 

She  listened   with  big-lipped  surprise. 

Breast-deep  'mid  flower  and  spine : 
Her  skin  was  like  a  grape,  whose  veins 

Run  snow  instead  of  wine. 

She  knew  not  those  sweet  words  she  spake, 

Nor  knew  her  own  sweet  way; 
But  there's  never  a  bird,  so  sweet  a  song 

Thronged  in  whose  throat  that  day. 

Oh,  there  were  flowers  in  Storrington 

On  the  turf  and  on  the  spray; 
But  the  sweetest  flower  on  Sussex  hills 

Was  the  daisy-flower  that  day! 

Her  beauty  smoothed  earth's  furrowed  face 

She  gave  me  tokens  three : — 
A  look,  a  word  of  her  winsome  mouth, 

And  a  wild  raspberry. 


470    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word, — strings  of  sand ! 
And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 

Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 

For  standing  artless  as  the  air, 

And  candid  as  the  skies, 
She  took  the  berries  with  her  hand, 

And  the  love  with  her  sweet  eyes. 

The  fairest  things  have  fleetest  end, 
Their  scent  survives  their  close: 

But  the  rose's  scent  is  bitterness 
To  him  that  loved  the  rose. 

She  looked  a  little  wistfully. 
Then  went  her  sunshine  way: — 
The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it. 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day. 

She  went  her  unremembering  way, 

She  went  and  left  in  me 
The  pang  of  all  the  partings  gone 

And  partings  yet  to  be. 

She  left  me  marvelling  why  my  soul 

Was  sad  that  she  was  glad ; 
At  all  the  sadness  in  the  sweet, 

The  sweetness  in  the  sad. 

Still,  still  I  seemed  to  see  her,  still 

Look  up  with  soft  replies. 
And  take  the  berries  with  her  hand, 

And  the  love  with  her  lovely  eyes. 

Nothing  begins,  and  nothing  ends. 

That  is  not  paid  with  moan  ; 
For  we  are  born   in  others'  pain. 

And  perish  in  our  own. 

ROBINSON    KAY    LEATHER 
Advice  to  a  Boy 

"DOY,  should  you  meet  a  pretty  wench 
unseen,  alone,  at  twilight  hour, 
ask  not  her  name ; 
for  on  the  crowded  street  at  noon 
she  ill  could  brook  the  glare  and  gaze, 


CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS  471 

and  Jack  and  Bill  would  call  her  plain, 
and  it  were  nothing  but  a  dream, 
and  j'ou  would  wake. 

Ask  no  forget-me-not.  nor  name 
a  tr>'Sting-place,  for  she  will  change, 

and  you  will  change: 
but  if  upon  your  memory 
no  single  detail  you  imprint, 
perchance  will  come  into  your  mind 
her  witchery  all  unawares, 

at  twilight  hour. 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS  (i860-        ) 
Recessional 

I^OW  along  the  solemn  heights 
■^^    Fade  the  Autumn's  altar-lights ; 

Down  the  great  earth's  glimmering  chancel 
Glide  the  days  and  nights. 

Little  kindred  of  the  grass, 
Like  a  shadow  in  a  glass 

Falls  the  dark  and  falls  the  stillness ; 
We  must  rise  and  pass. 

We  must  rise  and  follow,  wending 
Where  the  nights  and  days  have  ending, — 

Pass  in  order  pale  and  slow 
Unto  sleep  extending. 

Little  brothers  of  the  clod. 
Soul  of  fire  and  seed  of  sod. 

We  must  fare  into  the  silence 
At  the  knees  of  God. 

Little  comrades  of  the  sky 
Wing  to  wing  we  wander  by 
Going,  going,  going,  going, 
Softly  as  a  sigh. 

Hark,   the   moving   shapes   confer, 
Globe  of  dew  and  gossamer, 

Fading  and  ephemeral  spirits 
In  the  dusk  astir. 

Moth  and  blossom,  blade  and  bee. 
Worlds  must  go  as  well  as  we, 
In  the  long  procession  joining 
Mount,  and  star,  and  sea. 


472    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Toward  the  shadowy  brink  we  climb 
Where  the  round  year  rolls  sublime, 
Rolls,  and  drops,  and  falls  forever 
In  the  vast  of  time; 

Like  a  plummet  plunging  deep 
Past  the  utmost  reach  of  sleep, 

Till  remembrance  has  no  longer 
Care  to  laugh  or  weep. 


An  Epitaph  on  a  Husbandman 

"LIE  who  would  start  and  rise 

Before  the  crowing  cocks — 
No  more  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
Whoever  knocks. 

He  who  before  the  stars 
Would  call  the  cattle  home, — 

They  wait  about  the  bars 
For  him  to  come. 

Him  at  whose  hearty  calls 
The  farmstead  woke  again 

The  horses  in  their  stalls 
Expect  in  vain. 

Busy,  and  blithe,  and  bold. 

He  labotired  for  the  morrow, — 
The  plough  his  hands  would  hold 

Rusts  in  the  furrow. 

His  fields  he  had  to  leave, 
His  orchards  cool  and  dim ; 

The  clods  he  used  to  cleave 
Now  cover  him. 

But  the  green,  growing  things 
Lean  kindly  to  his  sleep, — 

White  roots  and  wandering  strings. 
Closer  they  creep. 

Because  he  loved  them  long 
And  with  them  bore  his  part, 

Tenderly  now  they  throng 
About  his  heart. 


JUSTIN  HUNTLF.Y  McCARTHY  473 

The  Cricket 

^^H,  to  be  a  cricket, 
^^       That's  the  thing! 
To  scurry  in  the  grass 

And  to  have  one's  fling! 
And  it's  oh,  to  be  a  cricket 
In  the  warm  thistle-thicket, 

Where  the  sun-winds  pass, 

Winds  a-wing, 
And  the  bumble-bees  hang  humming 

Hum  and  swing. 
And  the  honey-drops  are  coming! 

Abridged. 

The  Frosted  Pane 

/^NE  night  came  Winter  noiselessly  and  leaned 
^^       Against  my  window-pane. 
In   the   deep   stillness   of   his   heart  convened 
The  ghosts  of  all  his  slain. 

Leaves  and  ephemera,  and  stars  of  earth. 

And    fugitives    of    grass, — 
White   spirits   loosed    from   bonds   of  mortal  birth. 

He  drew  them  on  the  glass. 

JUSTIN  HUNTLEY  McCARTHY  (i860-        ) 
To  Ofjiar  Khayyam 

/^MAR,  dear  Sultan  of  the  Persian  Song, 
^^   Familiar  Friend  whom  I  have  loved  so  long. 

Whose  Volume  made  my  pleasant  Hiding-place 
From  this  fantastic  World  of  Right  and  Wrong. 

My  Youth  lies  buried  in  thy  Verses :  lo, 
I  read,  and  as  the  haunted  Numbers  flow. 

My  Memory  turns  in  anguish  to  the  Face 
That  leaned  o'er  Omar's  pages  long  ago. 

Alas  for  Me,  alas  for  all  who  weep 

And  wonder  at  the  Silence  dark  and  deep 

That  girdles  round  this   little  Lamp  in  space 
No  wiser  than  when  Omar  fell  asleep. 

Rest  in  thy  Grave  beneath  the  crimson  rain 
Of  heart-desired  Roses.     Life  is  vain, 

And  vain  the  trembling  Legends  we  may  trace 
Upon  the  open  Book  that  shuts  again. 


474    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
//  /  Were  King  (  After  Villon) 

TF  I  were  king — ah,  love,  if  I  were  king! 

"*•  What  tributary  nations  would  I  bring 

To  stoop  before  j^our  sceptre  and  to  swear 
Allegiance  to  your  lips  and  eyes  and  hair. 

Beneath  your  feet  what  treasures  I  would  fling : — 

The  stars  should  be  your  pearls  upon  a  string, 
The  world  a  ruby  for  your  finger  ring, 

And  you  should  have  the  sun  and  moon  to  wear 
If  I  were  king. 

Let  these  wild  dreams  and  wilder  words  take  wing, 
Deep  in  the  woods  I  hear  a  shepherd  sing 
A  simple  ballad  to  a  sylvan  air, 
Of  love  that  ever  finds  your  face  more  fair. 
I  could  not  give  you  any  godlier  thing 

If  I  were  king. 

BLISS  CARMAN   (1861-        ) 
Spring  Song 

lY^'AKE  me  over,  Mother  April, 

■*•  When  the  sap  begins  to  stir !  .  .  . 
When  thy  flowery  hand  delivers 
All  the  mountain-prisoned  rivers. 
And  thy  great  heart  beats  and  quivers 
To  revive  the  days  that  were, 
Make  me  over.  Mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir !  .  .  . 

Set  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  a-wine! 
Breast  of  scarlet,  throat  of  yellow. 
Raucous  challenge,  wooings  mellow— 
Every  migrant  is  my  fellow. 
Making  northward  with  the  spring. 
Set  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  a-wing!  .  .  . 

Make  me  over.  Mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir! 
Fashion  me  from  swamp  or  meadow, 
Garden  plot  or  ferny  shadow, 
Hyacirth  or  humble  burr! 
Make  me  over.  Mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir! 


■% 


BLISS  CARMAN  475 

Let  me  hear  the  far,  low  summons, 
When  the  silver  winds  return ; 
Rills  that  run  and  streams  that  stammer, 
Goldenwing  with  his  loud  hammer, 
Icy  hrooks  that  brawl  and  clamor, 
Where  the  Indian  willows  burn ; 
Let  me  hearken  to  the  calling, 
When  the  silver  winds  return.  .  .  . 

For  I  have  no  choice  of  being, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  climb,— 
Strong  insistence,  sweet  intrusion, 
Vasts  and  verges  of  illusion, — 
So  I  win,  to  time's  confusion. 
The  one  perfect  pearl  of  time, 
Joy  and  joy  and  joy  forever. 
Till  the  sap  forgets  to  climb!  .  .  . 

Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more ; 
Not  recalling  nor  foreseeing,^ 
Let  the  great  slow  joys  of  being 
Well  my  heart  through  as  of  yore  I 
Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more  I 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture. 

The  delirium  to  drain, 

All  my  fellows  drank  in  plenty 

At  the  Three  Score  Inns  and  Twenty 

From  the  mountains  to  the  main ! 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture, 

The  delirium  to  drain ! 

Only  make  me  over,  April,_ 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 
Make  me  man  or  make  me  woman, 
Make  me  oaf  or  ape  or  human. 
Cup  of  flower  or  cone  of  fir; 
Make  me  anything  but  neuter 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  I 

Abridged. 

Ballad  of  John  Camplejohn 

"■^XTHAT  do  you  sell,  John  Camplejohn, 

^^        In  Bav-Street  bv  the  sea?" 
"Oh,  turtle-shell  is  what  I  sell 
In  great  variety. 


476    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

"Trinkets  and  combs  and  rosaries, 

All  keepsakes  of  the  sea; 
'Tis  choose  and  buy  what  takes  the  eye 

In  such  a  treasury." 

"'Tis  none  of  these,  John  Camplejohn, 

Tho'  curious  they  be : 
But  something  more  I'm  looking  for, 

In  Bay-Street  by  the  sea, 

"Where  can  I  buy  the  magic  charm 

Of  the  Bahamian   Sea, 
That  fills   mankind   with  peace  of  mind 

And   soul's    felicity? 

"Now  what  do  you  sell,  John  Camplejohn, 

In  Baj^-Strcet  b}^  the  sea, 
Tinged '  with  that  true  and  native  blue. 

Of  lapis  lazuli? 

"Look  from  j'our  door  and  tell  me  now 

The  colour  of  the  sea — 
Where  can  I  buy  the  wondrous  dye 

And  take  it  home  with  me? 

"And  where  can  I  buy  that  rustling  sound 

In  this  city  by  the  sea. 
Of  the  plumy  palms  in  their  high  blue  calms; 

Or  the  stately  poise  and   free? 

"Of  the  bearers  who  go  up  and  down 

Silent  as  mystery, 
Burden  on  head,  with  naked  tread 

In  the  white  streets  by  the  sea? 

"And  where  can   I   buy,  John  Camplejohn, 

In  Bay-Street  by  the  sea? 
The  sunlight's  fall  on  the  old  pink  wall 

Or  the  gold  of  the  orange  tree?" 

"Ah,  that  is  more  than  I've  heard  tell 

In  Bay-Street  by  the  sea, 
Since  I  began,  my  roving  man, 

A  trafficker  to  be. 

"As  sure  as  I'm  John   Camplejohn, 

And  Bay-Street's  by  the  sea. 
Those  things   for  gold  have  not  been  sold 

Within  my  memory. 


KATHERINE    TYNAN    HINKSON  477 

"But  what  would  you  give,  my  roving  man, 

From  countries  over  the  sea, 
For  the  things  you  name  the  life  of  the  same. 

And  the  power  to  bid  them  be?" 

"I'd  give  my  hand,  John  Camplejohn, 

In  Bay-Street  by  the  sea, 
For  the  smallest  dower  of  that  dear  power, 

To  paint  the  things  I  see." 

"My  roving  man,  I  never  heard, 

On  any  land  or  sea, 
Under  the  sun,  of  any  one  \ 

Could  sell  that  power  to  thee." 

"'Tis  sorry  news,  John  Camplejohn, 

If  this  be  destiny. 
That  every  mart  should  know  that  art. 

Yet  none  can  sell  it  me. 

"But  look  you  here's  the  Grace  of  God ; 

There's  neither  price  nor  fee, 
Duty  nor  toil,  that  can  control 

The  power  to  love  and  see. 

"To  each  his  luck,  John  Camplejohn, 

No  less,  and  as   for  me. 
Give  me  the  pay  of  an  idle  day 

In  Bay-Street  by  the  sea." 


Envoy 

Have  little  care  that  Life  is  brief. 
And  less  that  Art  is  long. 
Success  is  in  the  silences 
Though  fame  is  in  the  song.  .  .  . 

Abridged. 


KATHERINE  TYNAN  HINKSON  (1861-       ) 
The  Desire 

/^TVE  me  no  mansions  ivory  white 
^^  Nor  palaces  of  pearl  and  gold; 
Give  me  a  child  for  all  delight. 
Just  four  years  old. 


478    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Give  me  no  w?ngs  of  rosy  shine 
Nor  snowy  raiment,  fold  on  fold. 
Give  me  a  little  boy  all  mine, 
Just  four  years  old. 

Give  me  no  gold  and  starry  crown 
Nor  harps,  nor  palm  branches  unrolled; 
Give  me  a  nestling  head  of  brown, 
Just  four  years  old. 

Give  me  a  cheek  that's  like  the  peach, 
Two  arms  to  clasp  me  from  the  cold ; 
And  all  my  heaven's  within  my  reach, 
Just  four  years  old. 

Dear  God,  You  give  me  from  Your  skies 
A  little  paradise  to  hold. 
As  Mary  once  her  Paradise, 
Just  four  years  old. 


SIR  OWEN  SEAMAN   (1861-        ) 
To  a  Boy-Poet  of  the  Decadence 

(Showing  curious  reversal  of  epigram — "La  na- 
ture I'a  fait  sanglier;  la  civilisation  I'a  reduit 
a  I'etat  de  cochon.") 

T5UT,  my  good  little  man,  you  have  made  a  mistake 

If  you  really  are  pleased  to  suppose 
That  the  Thames  is  alight  with  the  lyrics  you  make ; 
We  could  all  do  the  same  if  we  chose. 

From  Solomon  down,  we  may  read,  as  we  run. 

On  the  ways  of  a  man  and  a  maid ; 
There  is  nothing  that's  new  to  us  under  the  sun. 

And  certainly  not  in  the  shade. 

The  erotic  affairs  that  yon  fiddle  aloud 

Are  as  vulgar  as  coin  of  the  mint; 
And  you  merely  distinguish  yourself  from  the  crowd 

By  the  fact  that  you  put  'em  in  print. 

You're  a  'prentice,  my  boy,  in  the  primitive  stage, 

And  you  itch,  like  a  boy,  to  confess: 
When  you  know  a  hit  more  of  the  arts  of  the  age 

You  will  probably  talk  a  bit  less. 


MAURICE  HEWLETT  479 

For  your  dull  little  vices  we  don't  care  a  fig, 

It  is  this  that  we  deeply  deplore  : 
You  were  cast  for  a  common  or  usual  pig, 

But  you  play  the  invincible  bore. 


MAURICE  HEWLETT   (1861-        ) 

Flos  Virginum 

T\7"HERE  is  a  holier  thin^ 

^     In  a  fair  world  apparell'd  for  our  bliss 
Than  the  pure  influence 
That  dwells  in  a  girl's  heart 
And  beams  from  her  quiet  eyes? 
Earth  has  no  ministering 
So  lovely,  so  acceptable  or  wise, 
Withal  so  frail  as  this ; 
Which,  if  man  win,  it  needeth  all  his  art, 
Lest  uncouth  violence, 
Rough  mastery,  or  the  tyrannies  of  earth, 
Should  maim  or  shatter  out 
With  ill-timed   speech   or  flout 
Her  wistful-tender'd  balm  at  very  birth. 

Her  Motherhood  to  be 

She  hides  in  her  child-bosom,  as  a  seed 

That  creepeth  to  be  flower 

Long  ere  it  f eeleth  light : 

She  nurtureth  her  lover. 

Within  her  arms  made  free. 

Upon  her  heart  made  restful,  given  over 

To  her  most  gentle  deed. 

He  lieth  watcht  upon  by  her  grave  sight ; 

And  she  liveth  her  hour. 

Contented  to  be  Mother  to  this  child, 

Given  before  her  time 

Assurance  whence  to  climb 

Up  to  her  real  throne  of  Godhead  mild.  .  .  , 


Ah.  frailer  than  a  breath. 

Sullied  sooner,  more  fatally  than  glass ! 

If  such  most  desolate 

Pitiful  lot  be  hers. 

That  a  bnite-sonl  possess 

And  goad  her  to  her  death  : 

Death  were  more  welcome  than  the  piteousness 


480    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Of  life,  for  she  would  pass 

Up  to  the  stars,  the  silent  messengers 

Of  God  who  from  his  seat 

Wecpeth  for  beauty  driven  down  by  dearth 

Of  love  to  peak  and  fail, 

To  wrmg  hands  and  turn  pale. 

Eyeing  dismay'd  the  shock  of  her  soul's  worth. 

SIR  HENRY  NEWBOLT   (1862-        ) 
Drake's  Drum 

(Sir  Francis  Drake,   I540?-I596) 

T^  RAKE,  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?). 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a-dancin'  heel-an'-toe. 
An'  the  shore-lights  flashin',  an'  the  night-tide  dashin*, 

He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

Drake  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an'  ruled  the  Devon  seas, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Rovin'  though  his  death   fell,  he  went  wi'  heart  at  ease. 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
"Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore. 

Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin'  low ; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 

An'  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed  them  long 
ago." 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas  come, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe ; 
Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old  flag  flyin', 

They  shall  find  him   ware  an'   wakin',   as  they  found  him 
long  ago ! 

Messmates 

TJ"  E  gave  us  all  a  good-by  cheerily 

At  the  first  dawn  of  day; 
We  dropped  him  down  the  side  full  drearily 
When  the  light  died  away. 


ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON  481 

It's  a  dead  dark  watch  that  he's  a-keeping  there, 
And  a  long,  long  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there, 
Where  the  Trades  and  the  tides  roll  over  him 
And  the  great  ships  go  by. 

He's  there  alone  with  green  seas  rocking  him, 

For  a  thousand  miles  around ; 
He's  there  alone  with  dumb  things  mocking  him, 

And  we're  homeward  bound. 
It's  a  long,  lone  watch  that  he's  a-keeping  there, 
And  a  dead  cold  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there. 
While  the  months  and  the  years  roll  over  him 

And  the  great  ships  go  by. 

I  wonder  if  the  tramps  come  near  enough, 

As  thej'  thrash  to  and  fro, 
And  the  battleships'  bells  ring  clear  enough 

To  be  heard  down  below ; 
If  through  all  the  lone  watch  that  he's  a-keeping  there. 
And  the  long,  cold  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there. 
The  voices  of  the  sailor-men  shall  comfort  him 

When  the  great  ships  go  by. 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON   (1862-        ) 

Prelude 

XJUSHED  is  each  shout: 

The  reverent  people  vrait. 
To  see  the  sacred  pomp  stream  out 
Beside  the  temple  gate- 

The  bull  with  garlands  hung. 

Stern  priests  in  vesture  grim: 
With  rolling  voices  swiftly  sung-H 

Peals  out  the  jocund  hymn. 

In  front,  behind,  beside. 

Beneath  the  chimney  towers, 
Pass  boys  that  fling  the  censer  wide, 

And  striplings  scattering  flowers. 

Victim  or  minister 

I  dare  not  claim  to  be. 
But  in  the  concourse  and  the  stir, 

There  shall  be  room  for  me. 

The  victim  feels  the  stroke  : 

The  priests  are  bowed  in  prayer : — 

I  feed  the  porch  with  fragrant  smoke. 
Strew  roses  on  the  stair. 


482    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
NORMAN  GALE  (1862-        ) 
J  Love-Song 

C\  to  think,  0  to  think  as  I  see  her  stand  there 
^^  With  the  rose  that  I  plucked,  in  her  glorious  hair, 
In  the  robe  that  I  love, 
So  demure  and  so  neat, 
I  am  lord  of  her  lips  and  her  eyes  and  her  feet. 

O  to  think,  O  to  think  when  the  last  hedge  is  leapt, 
When  the  blood  is  awakened  that  dreamingly  slept, 

I  shall  make  her  heart  throb 

In  its  cradle  of  lace. 
As  the  lord  of  her  hair  and  her  breast  and  her  face. 

0  to  think,  O  to  think  when  our  wedding-bells  ring. 
When  our  love's  at  the  summer  but  life's  at  the  spring, 

I  shall  guard  her  asleep 
As  my  hound  guards  her  glove, 
Being  lord  of  her  life  and  her  heart  and  her  love! 

A  Creed 

/^OD  sends  no  message  by  me.    I  am  mute 

^^       When   Wisdom  crouches   in   her    farthest  cave; 

1  love  the  organ,  but  must  touch  the  lute.  .  .  . 

No  controversies  thrust  me  to  the  ledge 

Of  dangerous   schools   and   doctrines  hard  to  learn ; 
Give  me  the  whitethroat  whistling  in  the  hedge. 

Why  should  I  fret  myself  to  find  out  nought? 

Dispute  can  blight  the  soul's  eternal  corn 
And  choke  its  richness  with  the  tares  of  thought. 

I  am  content  to  know  that  God  is  great. 

And  Lord  of  fish  and  fowl,  of  air  and  sea, — 
Some   little  points   are   misty.     Let  them  wait  .  .  . 

Abridged. 

VICTOR  PLARR   (1863-        ) 

Epitaphiiim  Citharistria 

OTAND  not  uttering  sedately 

Trite  oblivious  praise  above  her  I 
Rather  say  you  saw  her  lately 
Lightly  kissing  her  last  lover. 


ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT  WATSON  483 

Whisper  not  "There  is  a  reason 

Why  we  bring  her  no  white  blossom :" 

Since  the  snowy  bloom's  in  season, 
Strow  it  on  her  sleeping  bosom : 

Oh,  for  it  would  be  a  pity 
To  o'erpraise  her  or  to  flout  her: 

She  was  wild,  and  sweet,  and  witty — 
Let's  not  say  dull  things  about  her. 

ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT  WATSON  (1863-        ) 
Requiescat 

"DURY  me  deep  when  I  am  dead, 

Far  from  the  woods  where  sweet  birds  sing; 
Lap  me  in  sullen  stone  and  lead, 
Lest  my  poor  dust  should  feel  the  Spring. 

Never  a  flower  be  near  me  set. 
Nor  starry  cup  nor  slender  stem, 
Anemone  nor  violet, 
Lest  my  poor  dust  remember  them. 

And  you — wherever  you  may  fare — 
Dearer  than  birds,  or  flowers,  or  dew — 
Never,  ah  me,  pass  never  there. 
Lest  my  poor  dust  should  dream  of  you. 

SIR    ARTHUR    T.    QUILLER-COUCH    (1863-        ) 
The  Splendid  Spur 

"^"OT  on  the  neck  of  prince  or  hound, 
Nor  on  a  woman's  finger  twined. 
May  gold  from  the  deriding  ground 
Keep  sacred  that  we  sacred  bind : 
Only  the  heel 
Of  splendid  steel 
Shall  stand  secure  on  sliding  fate, 
When  golden  navies  weep  their  freight 

The  scarlet  hat,  the  laureled  stave 

Are  measures,  not  the  springs,  of  worth; 
In  a  wife's  lap,  as  in  a  grave, 

Man's  airy  notions  mix  with  earth. 
Seek  other  spur 
Bravely  to  stir 
The  dust  in  this  loud  world,  and  tread 
Alp-high  among  the  whispering  dead. 


484    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Trust  in  thyself, — then  spur  amain: 
So  shall  Charybdis  wear  a  grace, 
Grim  ^tna  laugh,  the  Libyan  plain 
Take  roses  to  her  shriveled  face. 
This  orb — this  round 
Of  sight  and  sound — 
Count  it  the  lists  that  God  hath  built 
For  haughty  hearts  to  ride  a-tilt. 


HERBERT  P.  HORNE  (1864-        ) 

A  Song 

"KE  not  too  quick  to  carve  our  rhyme 
And  hearts,  upon  the  tree  of  Time; 
Lest  one  swift  year  prove,  in  its  run. 
They  were  but  lines,  and  poorly  done. 
That  longest  lived,  which  longest  grows 
In  stillness,  and  by  sure  degrees : 

So  rest  you.  Sweet ; 
That,  going  hence  with  calmer  feet, 
We  may  be  friends,  when  friends  are  foes, 
And  old  days  merely  histories. 


Upon  Returning  a  Silk  Handkerchief 

TWINGED  with  my  kisses  go,  go  thou  to  her, 

And  bid  her  bind  thee  round  her  faultless  throat; 
Till  thou,  close-lying  o'er  the  charmed  stir 

Of  her  white  breast,  grow  warm  and  seem  to  float 
Away  into  the  golden  noon,  the  still. 

Deep  sunlight  of  her.     Oh,  sleep  on !     'Tis  thine. 
Love's  summer  day.    No,  not  June'sthronged  hours 
So  glad  are,  when  the  songs  of  birds  fulfil 
Earth,  and  the  breezes  in  the  grass  decline, 
Held  by  the  scent  of  many  thousand  flowers. 

Yet  loose  that  flood  of  kisses,  which  thou  hast, 

Into  her  bosom,  and  through  all  her  hair ; 
Whispering,  it  is  my  utmost  wealth  amassed 

For  her,  being  fairest :  nor  do  thou  forbear, 
Until  she  feel  my  spirit,  like  a  blush, 

Steal  by  her  shoulder  and  frail  neck ;  for  when 
The  gorgeous  scarlet,  burning,  shall  have  moved 
Over  her  cheek,  the  little  after-hush 

Will  tell  to  her,  that  I  am  happy  then, 

God  I  for  how  short  a  time,  and  she  is  loved. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS  485 

Loved?     Wheretore  loved  that  never,  but  in  thought, 

May  be  possessed?     Is  it,  that  thus  might  grow 
From  out  a  look,  a  touch,  long  past  to  naught, 

My  Beatrice,  and  my  perfect  love ;  and  so 
Dwell  with  me  here,  although  the  while  I  guess, 

'Tis  but  a  dream,  which  only  does  me  wrong? 
O  wretched  truth  !  and  yet  the  hour,  that  girds 
My  pensive  nature  with  her  loveliness. 

Would  bitter  be,  as  'tis  unto  this  Song 

To  wed  these  thoughts  too  stern  for  dainty  words. 

Would  'twere  no  dream,  this  dream ;  this  long,  devout, 

Untiring  worship,  vainly  yet  essayed ; 
This  absolute  love ;  then  were  the  torturing  doubt. 

The  troubled  ocean  of  the  soul  allayed : 
Desire  would  have  her  lust,  and  we  have  ease. 

Here,  from  her  everlasting  thirst ;  nor  pine 
Vainly ;  but  feel  the  fret,  the  harrowed  breath. 
The  throbbing  heart,  that  will  not,  will  not  cease, 

Stilled  into  marble,  Greek-like,  calm,   divine, 

Remembering  not  the  past.     Stay  1    This  is  Death. 

Sonnet 

If  I  could  come  again  to  that  dear  place 

Where  once  I  came,  where  Beauty  lived  and  moved, 

Where,  by  the  sea,  I  saw  her  face  to  face. 

That  soul  alive  by  which  the  world  has  loved ; 

If,  as  I  stood  at  gaze  among  the  leaves, 

She  would  appear  again,  as  once  before. 

While  the  red  herdsman  gathered  up  his  sheaves 

And  brimming  waters  trembled  up  the  shore ; 

If,  as  I  gazed,  her  Beauty  that  was  dumb. 

In  that  old  time,  before  I  learned  to  speak. 

Would  lean  to  me  and  revelation  come, 

Words  to  the  lips  and  colour  to  the  cheek, 

Joy  with  its  searing-iron  would  burn  me  wise. 

I  should  know  all ;  all  powers,  all  mysteries. 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS  (1865-        ) 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree 

T  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
•■•       And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made : 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 


486    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes  dropping 
slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where  the  cricket 
sings ; 
There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always,  night  and  day, 

I  hear  lake-water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore; 

While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements  gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

'When  You  Are  Old" 

T\7'HEN  you  are  old  and  gray  and  full  of  sleep, 
^^     And  nodding  by  the  fire,  take  down  this  book. 
And  slowly  read  and  dream  of  the  soft  look 
Your  eyes  had  once,  and  of  their  shadows  deep; 

How  many  loved  your  moments  of  glad  grace. 
And  loved  your  beauty  with  love  false  or  true ; 
But  one  man  loved  the  pilgrim  soul  in  you, 
And  loved  the  sorrows  of  your  changing  face. 

And  bending  down  beside  the  glowing  bars 
Murmur,  a  little  sadly,  how  love  fled 
And  paced  upon  the  mountains  overhead 
And  hid  his  face  amid  a  crowd  of  stars. 

The  Cap  and  Bells 

A  jester  walked  in  the  garden; 
The  garden  had  fallen  still; 
He  bade  his  soul  rise  upward 
And  stand  at  her  window-sill. 

It  rose  in  a  straight  blue  garment. 
When  owls  began  to  call : 
It  had  grown   wise-tongued  by  thinking 
Of  a  quiet  and  light  foot-fall; 

But  the  young  queen  would  not  listen ; 
She  rose  in  her  pale  night  gown  ; 
She  drew  in  the  heavy  casement 
And  push'd  the  latches  down. 

He  bade  his  heart  go  to  her, 
When  the  owls  call'd  out  no  more: 
In  a  red  and  quivering  garment 
It  sang  to  her  through  the  door. 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  487 

It  had  grown  sweet-tongued  by  dreaming 
Of  a  flutter  of  flower-like  hair; 
But  she  took  up  her  fan  from  the  table 
And  waved  it  off  on  the  air. 

"I  have  cap   and  bells,"  he  pondered, 
"I  will  send  them  to  her  and  die"; 
And  when  the  morning  whiten'd 
He  left  them  where  she  went  by. 

She  laid  them  upon  her  bosom, 

Under  a  cloud  of  her  hair. 

And  her  red  lips  sang  them  a  love-song, 

Till  stars  grew  out  of  the  air. 

She  open'd  her  door  and  her  window. 
And  the  heart  and  the  soul  came  through. 
To  her  right  hand  came  the  red  one. 
To  her  left  hand  came  the  blue. 

They  set  up  a  noise  like  crickets, 
A  chattering  wise  and  sweet. 
And  her  hair  was  a  folded  flower. 
And  the  quiet  of  love  in  her  feet. 

ARTHUR   SYMONS    C1865-        )" 

At  the  Stage-Door 

IT  ICKING  my  heels  in  the  street. 

Here  at  the  edge  of  the  pavement  I  wait,  and  my  feet 
Paw  at  the  ground  like  the  horses'  hoofs  in  the  street. 

Under  the  archway  sheer, 

Sudden  and  black  as  a  hole  in  the  placarded  wall. 

Faces  flicker  and  veer, 

Wavering  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light, 

Wavering  back  into  night; 

Under  the  archway,  suddenly  seen,  the  curls 

And  thin,  bright  faces  of  girls. 

Roving  eyes,  and  smiling  lipg,  and  the  glance 

Seeking,  finding  perchance. 

Here  at  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  there  by  the  wall. 

One  face,  out  of  them  all. 

Steadily,  face  after  face, 

Cheeks  with  the  blush  of  the  paint  yet  lingering,  eyes 

Still  with  their  circle  of  black  .  .  . 

But  hers,  but  hers? 


488    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Rose-leaf  cheeks,  and  flower-soft  lips,  and  the  grace 

Of  the  vanishing  Spring  come  back, 

And  a  child's  heart  blithe  in  the  sudden  and  sweet  surprise, 

Subtly  expectant,  that  stirs 

In  the  smile  of  her  heart  to  my  heart,  of  her  eyes  to  my  eyes. 


Asking  Forgiveness 

T  did  not  know ;  child,  child,  I  did  not  know, 

Who  now  in  lonely  wayfare  go, 
Who  wander  lonely  of  you,  O  my  child, 
And  by  myself  exiled. 

I  did  not  know,  but,  O  white  soul  of  youth, 
So  passionate  of  truth, 
So  amorous  of  duty,  and  so  strong 
To  suffer,  all  but  wrong. 
Is  there  for  me  no  pity,  who  am  weak? 
Spare  me  this  silence,  speak  I 
I  did  not  know:   I  wronged  you;  I  repent: 
But  will  you  not  relent? 
Must  I  still  wander,  outlawed,  and  go  on 
The  old  weary  ways  alone, 
As  in  the  old,  intolerable  days 
Before  I  saw  your  face, 

The  doubly  darkened  ways  since  you  withdraw 
Your  light,  that  was  my  law? 
I  charge  you  by  your  soul,  pause,  ere  you  hurl 
Sheer  to  destruction,  girl. 
A  poor_  soul  that  had  midway  struggled  out. 
Still  midway  clogged  about, 
And  for  the  love  of  you  had  turned  his  back 
Upon  the  miry  track. 

That  had  been  as  a  grassy  wood->vay,  dim 
With  violet-beds,  to  him. 
I  wronged  you,  but  I  loved  you ;  and  to  me 
Your  love  was  purity ; 
I  rose,  because  you  called  me,  and  I  drew 
Nearer  to  God,  in  you. 
I  fall,  and  if  you  leave  me,  I  must  fall 
To  that  last  depth  of  all. 
Where  not  the  miracle  of  even  your  eyes 
Can  bid  the  dead  arise. 

I  charge  you  that  you  save  not  your  own  sense 
Of   lilied   innocence. 

By  setting,  at  the  roots  of  that  fair  stem, 
A  murdered  thing,  to  nourish  them. 


RUDYx\RD  KIPLING  489 

After  Love 

'X'O  part  now,  and,  parting  now, 

Never  to  meet  again  ; 
To  have  done  for  ever,  I  and  thou, 
With  joy,  and  so  with  pain. 

It  is  too  hard,  too  hard  to  meet 

If  we  must  love  no  more; 

Those  other  meetings  were  too  sweet 

That  went  before. 

And  I  would  have,  now  love  is  over, 
An  end  to  all,  an  end : 
I  cannot,  having  been  your  lover, 
Stoop  to  become  j'our  friend  I 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  (1865-        ) 

Mandalay 

"D  Y  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  to  the  sea, 
■^   There's    a   Burma   girl   a-settin',   an'    I   know    she   thinks 

o'  me ; 
For  the  wind  is  in  the  palm  trees,  an'  the  temple  bells  they  say: 
"Come  you  back,  you  British  soldier ;  come  you  back  to  Man- 
dalay!" 

Come  j'^ou  back  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay: 

Can't  you  'ear  their  paddles  chunkin'  from  Rangoon  to  Man- 
dalay ? 

Oh,  the  road  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 

An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China  'crost  the 
Bay! 

'Er  petticut  was  yaller  an'  'er  little  cap  was  green. 

An'  'er  name  was  Supi-yaw-lat — jes'  the  same  as  Theebaw's 

Queen, 
An'  I  seed  her  fust  a-smokin'  of  a  whackin'  \yhite  cheroot. 
An'  a-wastin'  Christian  kisses  on  an  'eathen  idol's  foot: 

Bloomin'  idol  made  o'  mud — 

Wot  they  called  the  Great  Gawd  Budd — 

Plucky  lot  she  cared  for  idols  when  I  kissed  'er  where  she 
stud  I 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 


490    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

When  the  mist  was  on  the  rice-fields  an'  the  sun  was  droppin' 

slow, 
She'd  git  'er  little  banjo  an'  she'd  sing  "Kulla-lo-lo!" 
With  'er  arm  upon  my  shoulder,  an'  'er  cheek  agin  my  cheek, 
We  useter  watch  the  steamers  an'  the  hathis  pilin'  teak. 

Elephints  a-pilin'  teak. 

In  the  sludgy,  squdgy  creek, 

Where  the  silence  'ung  that  *eavy  you  was  *ar£  afraid  to 
speak ! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 


But  that's  all  shove  be'ind  me — long  ago  an'  fur  away. 
An'  there  ain't  no  'buses  runnin'  from  the  Benk  to  Mandalay ; 
An'  I'm  learnin'  'ere  in  London  what  the  ten-year  sodger  tells : 
"If  you've  'eard  the  East  a-callin',  why,  you  won't  'eed  nothin' 

else."   . 
No !  you  won't  'eed  nothin'  else 
But  them  spicy  garlic  smells 
An'  the   sunshine   an'   the   palm  trees   an'  the  tinkly  temple 

bells ! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

I  am  sick  o'  wastin'  leather  on  these  gutty  pavin'-stones. 
An'  the  blasted  Henglish  drizzle  wakes  the  fever  in  my  bones ; 
Though  I  walks  with  fifty  'ousemaids  outer  Chelsea  to  the 

Strand, 
An'  they  talks  a  lot  o'  lovin',  but  wot  do  they  understand? 

Beefy  face  an'  grubby  'and — 

Law!  wot  do  they  understand? 

I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a  cleaner,  greener  land ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

Ship  me  somewheres  east  of  Suez  where  the  best  is  like  the 

worst. 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an'  a  man  can 

raise  a  thirst; 
For  the  temple  bells  are  callin',  an'  it's  there  that  I  would 

be— 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  lazy  at  the  sea — 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay, 

With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings  when  we  went  to  Man- 
dalay ! 
Oh,  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China  'crost  the 
Bay! 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  491 

Danny  Deever 

■y\^HAT  are  the  busies  blowin'  for?"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
^^     To  turn  you  out,  to  turn  you  out,"  the  Color-Sergeant 
said. 
"What  makes  you  look  so  white,  so  white?"  said  Files-on- 

Parade. 
"I'm   dreadin'  what  I've  got  to  watch,"  the   Color-Sergeant 
said. 
For  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you  can  'ear  the  Dead 

March  play, 
The  regiment's  in  'ollow  square — they're  hangin'  him  to-day ; 
They've  taken  of  his  buttons  off  an'  cut  his  stripes  away. 
An'  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

"What  makes  the  rear-rank  breathe  so  'ard?"  said  Files-on- 

Parade. 
"It's  bitter  cold,  it's  bitter  cold,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
"What  makes  that  front-rank  man  fall  down?"  says  Files- 
on-Parade. 
"A  touch  o'  sun,  a  touch  o*  sun,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
They're  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  they  are  marchin*  of  'im 

round. 
They  'ave  'alted  Danny  Deever  by  'is  coffin  on  the  ground ; 
An'   'e'll   swing  in    'arf   a   minute    for   a   sneakin'   shootin' 

hound — 
O  they're  hangin*  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin' ! 

"  'Is  cot  was  right-'and  cot  to  mine,"  said  Files-on-Parade.^ 
"'E's  sleepin'  out  an'  far  to-night,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 

"I've  drunk  'is  beer  a  score  o'  times,"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"  'E's  drinkin'  bitter  beer  alone,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 

They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you  must  mark  'im  to  'is 
place, 

For  'e  shot  a  comrade  sleepin' — you  must  look  'im  in  the 
face; 

Nine  'undred  of  'is  county  an'  the  regiment's  disgrace, 

While  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

"What's  that  so  black  agin  the  sun?"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"It's  Danny  fightin'  'ard  fur  life,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
"What's  that  that  whimpers  over'ead?"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"It's  Danny's  soul  that's  passin'  now,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 

For  they're  done  with  Danny  Deever,  you  can  'ear  the  quick- 
step play, 

The  regiment's  in  column,   an'  they're  marchin*  us  away; 

Ho !  the  young  recruits  are  shakin',  an'  they'll  want  their 
beer  to-day. 

After  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 


492    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Recessional 

/^  OD  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 
^^       Lord  of  our  far-fiung  battle  line — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 

Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart — 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice. 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet. 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Ls  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre  ! 

iudge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 
,est  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet. 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget  I 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust. 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, — 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word. 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord!     amen. 


^'he  Vampire,  as  Suggested  by  the  Painting  by 
Philip  Burne-Jones 

\  fool  there  was  and  he  made  his  prayer 

(I'A'cn  as  you  and  I!) 
To  a  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair 
(We  called  her  the  woman  who  did  not  care), 
But  the  fool  he  called  her  his  lady  fair 
(Even  as  you  and  I!) 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  493 

Oh  the  years  we  waste  and  the  tears  we  waste, 

And  the  work  of  our  head  and  ha)id, 
Belong  to  the  woman  zvho  did  not  know 
{And  now  zve  know  that  she  never  could  know) 

And  did  not  understand. 

A  fool  there  was  and  his  goods  he  spent 

( Even  as  you  and  I ! ) 
Honor  and  faith  and  a  sure  intent 
(And  it  wasn't  the  least  what  the  lady  meant), 
But  a  fool  must  follow  his  natural  bent 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 
Oh  the  toil  we  lost  and  the  spoil  we  lost. 

And  the  excellent  things  we  planned, 
Belong  to  the  woman  who  didn't  know  why 
(And  now  we  know  she  never  knew  why) 

And  did  not  understand. 

The  fool  was  stripped  to  his  foolish  hide 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 
Which  she  might  have  seen  when  she  threw  him  aside, — 
(But  it  isn't  on  record  the  lady  tried) 
So  some  of  him  lived  but  the  most  of  him  died — 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 

And  it  isn't  the  shame  and  it  isn't  the  blame 

That  stings  like  a  white-hot  brand. 
It's  coming  to  know  that  she  never  knew  why 
(Seeing  at  last  she  cotild  never  know  why) 

And  never  could  understand. 

The  Story  of  Uriah 

"Now  there  were  two  men  in  one  city;  the  one  rich  and  the 
other  poor." 

TACK  BARRETT  went  to  Quetta, 

Because  they  told  him  to. 
He  left  his  wife  at  Simla 

On   three-fourths   his   monthly  screw: 
Jack  Barrett  died  at  Quetta 

Ere  the  next  month's  pay  he  drew. 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta, 

He  didn't  understand 
The  reason  of  his  transfer 

From  the  pleasant  mountain-land : 
The  season  was  September, 

And  it  killed  him  out  of  hand. 


494      THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Jack  Barrett  went  to   Quetta 

And  there  p^ave  up  the  ghost, 
Attempting  two  men's  duty 

In  that  very  healthy  post ; 
And  Airs.  Barrett  mourned  for  him 

Five  lively  months  at  most. 

Jack  Barrett's  bones  at  Quetta 

luijoy  profound  repose; 
But  I  shouldn't  be  astonished 

If  no7V  his  spirit  knows 
The  reason  of  his  transfer 

From  the  Himalaj^an  snows. 

And,  when  the  Last  Great  Bugle  Call 

Adown  the  Hurnai  throbs. 
When  the  last  grim  joke  is  entered 

In  the  big  black  Books  of  Jobs, 
And  Quetta's  graveyards  give  again 

Their  victims  to  the  air, 
I  shouldn't  like  to  be  the  man 

Who  sent  Jack  Barrett  there. 

L'Envoi 

'X'HERE'S   a  whisper   down   the   field   where  the  year  has 

shot  her  yield, 
And  the  ricks  stand  grey  to  the  sun, 
Singing: — 'Over  then,  come   over,    for   the  bee   has   quit  the 

clover 
And  your  English  summer's  done.' 

You  have  heard  the  beat  of  the  off-shore  wind, 

And  the  thresh  of  the  deep-sea  rain ; 

You  have  heard  the  song — how  long!  how  long? 

Pull  out  on  the  trail  again ! 

Ha'  done  with  the  Tents  of  Shem,  dear  lass, 

We've  seen  the  seasons  through, 

And  it's  time  to  turn  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail. 
Pull  out,  pull  out,  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 

always  new. 

It's  North  you  may  run  to  the  rime-ringed  sun 

Or  South  to  the  blind  Horn's  hate ; 
Or  East  all  the  way  into  Mississippi  Bay, 

Or  West  to  the  Golden  Gate ; 

Where  the  blindest  blufifs  hold  good,  dear  lass. 

And  the  wildest  tales  are  true. 
And  the  men  bulk  big  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the  out 

trail, 
And  life  runs  large  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is  always 

new. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  495 

The  days  are  sick  and  cold,  and  the  skies  are  grey  and  old, 

And  the  twice-breathed  airs  blow  damp ; 
And  I'd  sell  my  tired  soul  for  the  bucking  beam-sea  roll 

Of  a  black  Bilbao  tramp; 

With  her  load-line  over  her  hatch,  dear  lass, 

And  a  drunken  Dago  crew, 

And  her  nose  held  down  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 
the  out  trail 

From  Cadiz  Bar  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is  al- 
ways new. 

There  be  triple  ways  to  take,  of  the  eagle  or  the  snake, 

Or  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid ; 
But  the  sweetest  way  to  me  is  a  ship's  upon  the  sea 

In  the  heel  of  the  North-East  Trade. 

Can  you  hear  the  crash  on  her  bows,  dear  lass, 

And  the  drum  of  the  racing  screw. 

As  she  ships  it  green  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail. 
As  she  lifts  and  'scends  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that 

is  always  new? 

See  the  shaking  funnels  roar,  with  the  Peter  at  the  fore. 

And  the  fenders  grind  and  heave, 
And  the  derricks  clack  and  grate  as  the  tackle  hooks  the  crate. 

And  the  fall-rope  whines  through  the  sheave; 

It's  'Gang-plank  up  and  in,'  dear  lass. 

It's  'Hawsers  warp  her  through !' 

And  it's  'All  clear  aft'  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail. 
We're  backing  down  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 

always  new. 

Oh,  the  mutter  overside,  when  the  port-fog  holds  us  tied. 

And  the  syrens  hoot  their  dread ! 
When  foot  by  foot  we  creep  o'er  the  hueless,  viewless  deep 
>     To  the  sob  of  the  questing  lead ! 

It's  down  by  the  Lower  Hope,  dear  lass, 

With  the  Gunfleet  Sands  in  view. 

Till  the  Mouse  swings  green  on  the  old  trail,  our  own 

trail,  the  out  trail, 
And  the  Gull  Light  lifts  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that 

is  always  new. 

Oh.  the  blazing  tropic  night,  when  the  wake's  a  welt  of  light 

That  holds  the  hot  sky  tame. 
And  the  steady  fore-foot  snores  through  the  planet-powdered 
floors 

Where  the  scared  whale  flukes  in  flame  1 


496    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Her  plates  are  scarred  by  the  sun,  dear  lass. 
Her  ropes  are  taut  with  the  dew, 
For  we're  booming  down  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail, 
We're  sagging  south  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 

always  new. 

Then  home,  get  her  home  where  the  drunken  rollers  comb, 

And  the  shouting  seas  drive  by, 
And  the  engines  stamp  and  ring  and  the  wet  bows  reel  and 
swing. 

And  the  Southern  Cross  rides  high  1 

Yes,  the  old  lost  stars  wheel  back,  dear  lass, 

That  blaze  in  the  velvet  blue. 

They're  all  old  friends  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 
They're  God's  own  guides  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail 

that  is  always  new. 

Fly  forward,  O  my  heart,  from  the  Foreland  to  the  Start — 

We're  steaming  all  too  slow, 
And  it's  twenty  thousand  mile  to  our  little  lazy  isle 

Where  the  trumpet-orchids  blow ! 

You  have  heard  the  call  of  the  oflf-shore  wind 
And  the  voice  of  the  deep-sea  rain — 
You  have  heard  the  song — how  long!  how  long? 
Pull  out  on  the  trail  again  I 

The  Lord  knows  what  we  may  find,  dear  lass. 

And  the  Deuce  knows  what  we  may  do — 

But  we're  back  once  more  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 
We're  down,  hull-down  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 

always  new. 


HERBERT   TRENCH    (1865-        ) 

A  Charge 

JF  thou  hast  squandered  years  to  grave  a  gem 
Commissioned  by  thy  absent  Lord,  and  while 
'Tis  incomplete, 
Others  would  bribe  thy  needy  skill  to  them — 
Dismiss  them  to  the  street ! 


LAURENCE  HOPE  497 

Siiouldst  thou  at  last  discover  Beauty's  grove, 
At  last  be  panting  on  the  fragrant  verge, 

But  in  the  track, 
Drunk  with  divine  possession,  thou  meet  Love — 

Turn,  at  her  bidding,  back. 

When  round  thy  ship  in  tempest  Hell  appears, 
And  every  specter  mutters  up  more  dire 
To  snatch  control 
And  loose  to  madness  thy  deep-kenneled  Fears — 
Then  to  the  helm,  O  Soul! 

Last,  if  upon  the  cold,  green-mantling  sea, 
Thou  cling,  alone  with  Truth,  to  the  last  spar, 

Both  castaway. 
And  one  must  perish — let  it  not  be  he 

Whom  thou  art  sworn  to  obey. 

"I  Heard  a  Soldier'* 

¥  HEARD  a  soldier  sing  some  trifle 
Out  in  the  sun-dried  veldt  alone: 
He  lay  and  cleaned  his  grimy  rifle 
Idly,  behind  a  stone. 

"If  after  death,  love,  comes  a  waking. 
And  in  their  camp  so  dark  and  still 
The  men  of  dust  hear  bugles,  breaking 
Their  halt  upon  the  hill, 

"To  me  the  slow  and  silver  pealing 
That  then  the  last  high  trumpet  pours 

Shall  softer  than  the  dawn  come  stealing, 
For,  with  its  call,  comes  yours !" 

What  grief  of  love  had  he  to  stifle, 

Basking  so  idly  by  his  stone. 
That  grimy  soldier  with  his  rifle 

Out  in  the  veldt,  alone? 


LAURENCE  HOPE   (ADELA  NICOLSON)    (1865-1904) 
Ashore 

TDUT  I  came  from  the  dancing  place, 

The  night-wind  met  me  face  to  face — 


498    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

A  wind  off  the  harbor,  cold  and  keen, 

"I  know,"  it  whistled,  "where   thou  hast  been." 

A  faint  voice  fell  from  the  stars  above — 
"Thou?  whom  we  lighted  to  shrines  of  Lovel" 

I  found  when  I  reached  my  lonely  room 
A  faint  sweet  scent  in  the  unlit  gloom. 

And  this  was  the  worst  of  all  to  bear, 
For  some  one  had  left  white  lilac  there. 

The  flower  you  loved,  in  times  that  were. 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  (1867-1902) 
Cadwith 

IMI'Y  windows  open  to  the  autumn  night, 
•^  ■*•    In  vain  I  watched  for  sleep  to  visit  me ; 
How  should  sleep  dull  mine  ears,  and  dim  my  sight, 
Who  saw  the  stars  and  listened  to  the  sea? 

Ah,  how  the  city  of  our  God  is  fair  I 

If,  without  sea,  and  starless  though  it  be. 

For  joy  of  the  majestic  beauty  there 

Men  shall  not  miss  the  stars,  nor  mourn  the  sea. 

By  the  Statue  of  King  Charles  at  Charing 
Cross 

C  OMBRE  and  rich,  the  skies,_ 

Great  glooms  and  starry  plains ; 
Gently  the  night  wind  sighs ; 
Else  a  vast  silence  reigns. 

The  splendid  silence  clings 
Around  me :  and  around 
The  saddest  of  all  Kings, 
Crown'd,  and  again  discrown'd. 

Comely  and  calm,  he  rides 
Hard  by  his  own  Whitehall. 
Only  the  night   wind  glides : 
No  crowds,  nor  rebels,  brawl. 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  499 

Gone,  too,  his  Court :  and  yet, 
The  stars  his  courtiers  are : 
Stars  in  their  stations  set ; 
And  every  wandering  star. 

Alone  he  rides,  alone. 
The  fair  and  fatal  King: 
Dark  night  is  all  his  own, 
That  strange  and  solemn  thing. 

Which  are  more  full  of  fate : 
The  stars ;  or  those  sad  eyes  ? 
Which  are  more  still  and  great : 
Those  brows,  or  the  dark  skies? 

Although  his  whole  heart  yearn 
In  passionate  tragedy, 
Never  was  face  so  stern 
With  sweet  austerity. 

Vanquish'd  in  life,  his  death 
By  beauty  made  amends : 
The  passing  of  his  breath 
Won  his  defeated  ends. 

Brief  life,  and  hapless?  Nay: 
Through  death,  life  grew  sublime. 
Speak  after  sentence?     Yea: 
And  to  the  end  of  time. 

Armour'd  he  rides,  his  head 
Bare  to  the  stars  of  doom ; 
He  triumphs  now,  the  dead, 
Beholding  London's  gloom. 

Our  wearier   spirit  faints, 
Vex'd  in  the  world's  employ: 
His  soul  was  of  the  saints; 
And  art  to  him  was  joy. 

King,  tried  in  fires  of  woe  \ 
Men  hunger  for  thy  grace : 
And  through  the  night  I  go, 
Loving  thy  mournful  face. 

Yet,  when  the  city  sleeps. 
When  all  the  cries  are  still. 
The  stars  and  heavenly  deeps 
Work  out  a  perfect  will. 


500    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 
The  Precept  of  Silence 

T  know  you  :  solitary  griefs, 

Desolate  passions,  aching  hours  ! 
I  know  you :  tremulous  beliefs. 
Agonized  hopes,  and  ashen  flowers ! 

The  winds  are  sometimes  sad  to  me ; 
The  starry  spaces  full  of  fear : 
Mine  is  the  sorrow  on  the  sea. 
And  mine  the  sigh  of  places  drear. 

Some  players  upon  plaintive  strings 
Publish  their  wistfulncss  abroad : 
I  have  not  spoken  of  these  things, 
Save  to  one  man,  and  unto  God. 

ERNEST  DOWSON  (1867-1900) 

Non  Sum  OiiaVis  Eram  Bonae  Sub  Regno  Cynara 

T    AST  night,  ah,  yesternight,  betwixt  her  lips  and  mine 

There   fell  thy  shadow,   Cynara !   thy  breath  was   shed 
Upon  mj'  soul  between  the  kisses  and  the  wine ; 
And  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  I  was  desolate  and  bowed  my  head. 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 

All  night  upon  mine  heart  I  felt  her  warm  heart  beat, 
Night-long  within  mine  arms  in  love  and  sleep  she  lay; 
Surely  the  kisses  of  her  bought  red  mouth  were  sweet; 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

When  I  awoke  and  found  the  dawn  was  gray : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara !  in  my  fashion. 

I  have  forgot  much,  Cynara !  gone  with  the  wind. 
Flung  roses,  roses  riotously  with  the  throng. 
Dancing,  to  put  thy  pale,  lost  lilies  out  of  mind ; 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  all  the  time,  because  the  dance  was  long : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara !  in  my  fashion. 

I  cried  for  madder  music  and  for  stronger  wine, 
But  when  the   feast  is  finished  and  the  lamps  expire, 
Then  falls  thy  shadow,  Cynara !  the  night  is  thine ; 
And  I  am  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion. 
Yea,  hungry  for  the  lips  of  my  desire: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara !  in  my  fashion. 


"A.  E."   (GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL)  501 

Dregs 

*  I  ""HE  fire  is  out,  and  spent  the  warmth  thereof, 

(This  is  the  end  of  every  song  man  sings!) 
The  golden  wine  is  drunk,  the  dregs  remain, 
Bitter  as  wormwood  and  as  salt  as  pain  ; 
And  health  and  hope  have  gone  the  way  of  love 
Into  that  drear  oblivion  of  lost  things. 
Ghosts  go  along  with  us  until  the  end ; 
This  was  a  mistress,  this,  perhaps,  a  friend. 
With  pale,  indifferent  ej^es,  we  sit  and  wait 
For  the  dropped  curtain  and  the  closing  gate : 
This  is  the  end  of  all  the  songs  man  sings. 

Extreme   Unction 

TTPON  the  eyes,  the  lips,  the  feet, 

On  all  the  passages  of  sense. 
The  atoning  oil  is  spread  with  sweet 
Renewal  of  lost  innocence. 

The  feet  that  lately  ran  so  fast 

To  meet  desire,  are  soothly  sealed; 
The  eyes,  that  were  so  often  cast 

On  vanity,  are  touched  and  healed. 

From  troubles,   sights  and   sounds   set  free. 

In  such  a  twilight  hour  of  breath, 
Shall  one  retrace  his  life,  or  see, 

Through  shadows,  the  true  face  of  death? 

Vials  of  mercy!     Sacring  oils! 

I  know  not  where  nor  when  they  come, 
Nor  through  what  wanderings  and  toils 

To  crave  of  you  Viaticum. 

Yet,  when  the  walls  of  flesh  grow  weak. 

In  such  an  hour,  it  well  may  be. 
Through  mist  and  darkness,  light  will  break. 

And  each  anointed   sense  will  see. 

"A.  E."  (GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL)  (1867-        ) 

A  Memory  of  Earth 

TN  the  west  dusk  silver  sweet, 

Down    the    violet-scented    ways, 
As  I  moved  with  quiet  feet 
I  was  met  by  mighty  days. 


502    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

On  the  hedge  the  hanging  dew 

Glass'd  the  eve  and  stars  and  skies ; 

While  I  gazed  a  madness  grew 
Into  thunder'd  battle-cries. 

Where  the  hawthorn  glimmered  white 
Flashed  the  spear  and  fell  the  stroke. 

Ah,  what  faces  pale  and  bright 
Where  the  dazzling  battle  broke ! 

There  a  hero-hearted  queen 
With  young  beauty  lit  the  van. 

Gone !  the  darkness  flowed  between 
All  the  ancient  wars  of  man. 

While  I  paced  the  valley's  gloom, 
Where  the  rabbits  patter'd  near, 

Shone  a  temple  and  a  tomb 
With  a  legend  carven  clear  : 

Time  put  by  a  myriad  fates 

That  her  day  might  dawn  in  glory: 

Death  made  wide  a  million  gates 
So  to  close  her  tragic  story. 

The  Gift 

1  thought,  beloved,  to  have  brought  to  you, 
A  gift  of  quietness  and  ease  and  peace, 
Cooling  your  brow  as  with  the  mystic  dew 
Dropping  from  twilight  trees. 

Homeward  I  go  not  yet ;  the  darkness  grows ; 
Not  mine  the  voice  to  still  with  peace  divine: 
From  the  first  fount  the  stream  of  quiet  flows 
Thru  other  hearts  than  mine. 

Yet  of  my  night  I  give  to  you  my  stars, 
And  of  my  sorrow  here  the  sweetest  gains, 
And  out  of  hell,  beyond  its  iron  bars, 
My  scorn  of  all  its  pains. 

The  Burning-Glass 

A  shaft  of  fire  that  falls  like  dew, 
■^       And  melts  and  maddens  all  my  blood, 
From  out  thy  spirit  flashes  through 
The  burning  glass  of  womanhood. 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  503 

Only  so  far;  here  must  I  stay: 

Nearer  I  miss  the  light,  the  fire; 
I  must  endure  the  torturing  ray, 

And  with  all  beauty,  all  desire. 

Ah,  time  long  must  the  effort  be, 

And  far  the  way  that  I  must  go 
To  bring  my  spirit  unto  thee. 

Behind  the  glass,  within  the  glow. 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  (1868-1915) 

T  in  the  greyness  rose ; 

I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  one  dead. 
Then  to  the  chest  I  went. 
Where  lie  the  things  of  my  beloved  spread. 

Quickly  these  I  took; 

A  little  glove,  a  sheet  of  music  torn. 
Paintings,  ill-done,  perhaps ; 

Then  lifted  up  a  dress  that  she  had  worn. 

And  now  I  came  to  where 

Her  letters  are;  they  lie  beneath  the  rest; 
And  read  them  in  the  haze ; 

She  spoke  of  many  things,  was  sore  opprest. 

But  these  things  moved  me  not ; 

Not  when  she  spoke  of  being  parted  quite. 
Or  being  misunderstood. 

Or  growing  weary  of  the  world's  great  fight. 

Not  even  when  she  wrote 

Of  our  dear  child,  and  the  handwriting  swerved ; 
Not  even  then  I  shook: 

Not  even  by  such  words  was  I  unnerved. 

I  thought,  she  is  at  peace ; 

Whither  the  child  is  gone,  she,  too,  has  passed. 
And  a  much-needed  rest 

Is  fallen  upon  her,  she  is  still  at  last. 

But  when  at  length  I  took 

From  under  all  those  letters  one  small  sheet. 
Folded  and  writ  in  haste ; 

Why  did  my  heart  with  sudden  sharpness  beat? 


504    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Alas!  it  was  not  sadl 

Her  saddest  words  I  had  read  calmly  o'er. 
Alas  1  it  had  no  pain  1 

Her  painful  words,  all  these  I  knew  before. 

A  hurried,  happy  line ! 

A  little  jest,  too  slight  for  one  so  dead: 
This  did  I  not  endure : 

Then  with  a  shuddering  heart  no  more  I  read. 


From  "Marpessa' 


o 


brief  and  breathing  creature,  wilt  then  cease 
Once  having  been  ?    Thy  doom  doth  make  thee  rich, 
And  the  low  grave  doth  make  thee  exquisite. 
But  if  thou'lt  live  with  me,  then  will  I  kiss 
Warm  immortality  into  thy  lips  ; 
And  I  will  carry  thee  above  the  world, 
To  share  my  ecstasy  of  flinging  beams, 
And  scattering  without  intermission  joy. 
And  thou  shalt  know  that  first  leap  of  the  sea 
Toward  me ;  the  grateful  upward  look  of  earth, 
Emerging  roseate  from  her  bath  of  dew, — 
We  two  in  heaven  dancing, — Babylon 
Shall  flash  and  murmur,  and  cry  from  under  us. 
And  Nineveh  catch  fire,  and  at  our  feet 
Be  hurled  with  her  inhabitants,  and  all 
Adoring  Asia  kindle  and  hugely  bloom ; — 
We  two  in  heaven  running, — continents 
Shall  lighten,  ocean  unto  ocean  flash, 
And  rapidly  laugh  till  all  this  world  is  warm. 
Or  since  thou  art  a  woman,  thou  shalt  have 
More  tender  tasks  ;  to  steal  upon  the  sea, 
A  long  expected  bliss  to  tossing  men.  _ 
Or  build  upon  the  evening  sky  some  wished 
And  glorious  metropolis  of  cloud. 
Thou  shalt  persuade  the  harvest  and  bring  on 
The  deeper  green ;  or  silently  attend 
The  fiery  funeral  of  foliage  old. 
Connive  with  Time  serene  and  the  good  hours. 
Or, — for  I  know  thy  heart, — a  dearer  toil, — 
To  lure  into  the  air  a  face  long  sick. 
To  gild  the  brow  that  from  its  dead  looks  up. 
To  shine  on  the  unforgiven  of  this  world ; 
With  slow  sweet  surgery  restore  the  brain, 
And  to  dispel  shadows  and  shadowy  fear. 
When  he  had  spoken,  humbly  Idas  said : 
"After  such  argument  what  can  I  plead? 
Or  what  pale  promise  make?    Yet  since  it  is 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  505 

In  women  to  pity  rather  than  to  aspire, 

A  little  I  will  speak.     I  love  thee  then 

Not  only  for  thy  body  packed  with  sweet 

Of  all  this  world,  that  cup  of  brimming  June, 

That  jar  of  violet  wine  set  in  the  air, 

That  palest  rose  sweet  in  the  night  of  life; 

Nor  for  that  stirring  bosom  all  besieged 

By  drowsing  lovers,  or  thy  perilous  hair  ; 

Nor  for  that  face  that  might  indeed  provoke 

Invasion  of  old  cities ;  no,  nor  all 

Thy  freshness  stealing  on  me  like  strange  sleep. 

Not  for  this  only  do  I  love  thee,  but 

Because  Infinity  upon  thee  broods ; 

And  thou  art  full  of  whispers  and  of  shadows. 

Thou  meanest  what  the  sea  had  striven  to  say 

So  long,  and  yearned  up  the  cliffs  to  tell ; 

Thou  art  what  all  the  winds  have  uttered  not. 

What  the  still  night  suggesteth  to  the  heart. 

Thy  voice  is  like  to  music  heard  ere  birth, 

Some  spirit  lute  touched  on  a  spirit  sea ; 

Thy  face  remembered  is  from  other  worlds, 

It  has  been  died  for,  though  I  know  not  when, 

It  has  been  sung  of,  though  I  know  not  where. 

It  has  the  strangeness  of  the  luring  West, 

And  of  sad  sea-horizons ;  beside  thee 

I  am  aware  of  other  times  and  lands. 

Of  birth  far-back,  of  lives  in  many  stars. 

O  beauty  lone  and  like  a  candle  clear 

In  this  dark  country  of  the  world !     Thou  art 

My  woe,  my  early  light,  my  music  dying." 

From  "Herod" 

fJEROD.  Pour  out  those  pearls, 

And  give  me  in  my  hand  that  bar  of  gold. 
I  heard  an  angel  crying  from  the  Sun, 
For  glory,  for  more  glory  on  the  earth ; 
And  here  I'll  build  the  wonder  of  the  world. 
I  have  conceived  a  Temple  that  shall  stand 
Up  in  such  splendour  that  men  bright  from  it 
Shall  pass  with  a  light  glance  the  pyramids.  .  .  . 
I  dreamed  last  night  of  a  dome  of  beaten  gold 
To  be  a  counter-glory  to  the  Sun. 
There  shall  the  eagle  blindly  dash  himself. 
There  the  first  beam  shall  stifle,  and  there  the  moon 
Shall  aim  all  night  her  argent  archery ; 
And  it  shall  be  the  tryst  of  sundered  stars, 
The  haunt  of  dead  and  dreaming  Solomon ; 
Shall  send  a  light  upon  the  lost  in  Hell, 


506    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And    flashings   upon    faces   without  hope — 

And  I  will  think  in  gold  and  dream  in  silver, 

Imagine  in  marble  and  in  bronze  conceive, 

Till  it  shall  dazzle  pilgrim  nations. 

And  stammering  tribes  from  undiscovered  lands, 

Allure  the  living  God  out  of  the  bliss, 

And  all  the  streaming  seraphim   from  heaven. 

LAURENCE  BINYON  (1869-        ) 
"0  World,  Be  Nobler'* 

f\  World,  be  nobler,  for  her  sake ! 
^^  If  she  but  knew  thee  what  thou  art, 

What  wrongs  are  borne,  what  deeds  are  done 
In  thee,  beneath  thy  daily  sun. 

Know'st  thou  not  that  her  tender  heart 
For  pain  and  very  shame  would  break? 

0  World,  be  nobler,  for  her  sake ! 

LORD  ALFRED  DOUGLAS  (1870-        ) 

The  Dead  Poet 

T  dreamed  of  him  last  night,  I  saw  his  face 

All  radiant  and  unshadowed  of  distress, 
And  as  of  old,  in  music  measureless, 

1  heard  his  golden  voice  and  marked  him  trace 
Under  the  common  thing  the  hidden  grace. 
And  conjure  wonder  out  of  emptiness. 

Till  mean  things  put  on  beauty  like  a  dress 
And  all  the  world  was  an  enchanted  place. 
And  then  methought  outisde  a  fast-locked  gate 
I  mourned  the  loss  of  unrecorded  words, 
Forgotten  tales  and  mysteries  half  said. 
Wonders  that  might  have  been  articulate. 
And  voiceless  thoughts  like  murdered  singing  birds. 
And  so  I  woke  and  knew  that  he  was  dead. 

OLIVE  CUSTANCE  (LADY  ALFRED  DOUGLAS) 
^\  !  do  you  hear  the  rain 
^-^         Beat  on  the  glass  in  vain? 
So  my  tears  beat  against  fate's  feet 
In  vain  ...  in  vain  ...  in  vain. 

0 1  do  you  see  the  skies 

As  gray  as  your  grave  eyes  ? 

O  I  do  you  hear  the  wind,  my  dear, 

That  sighs  and  sighs  and  sighs?  .  .  . 


DOLLIE  RADFORD  507 

.  .  .  Tired  as  this  twilight  seems 
My  soul  droops  sad  with  dreams  .  .  . 
You  cannot  know  where  we  two  go 
In  dreams  ...  in  dreams  ...  in  dreams. 

You  only  watch  the  light, 
Sinking  away  from  night  .  .  . 
In  silver  mail  all  shadowy  pale, 
The  moon  shines  white,  so  white.  .  .  . 

...  O !  if  we  two  were  wise 
Your  eyes  would  leave  the  skies 
And  look  into  my  eyes ! 
And  I  who  wistful  stand,  .  .  . 
One  foot  in  fairy  land. 
Would  catch  Love  by  the  hand. 

DOLLIE  RADFORD 

T  could  not  through  the  burning  day 
In  hope  prevail, 
Beside  my  task  I  could  not  stay 
If  love  should  fail. 

Nor  underneath  the  evening  sky, 

When  labours  cease. 
Fold  both  my  tired  hands  and  lie 

At  last  in  peace. 

Ah !  what  to  me  in  death  or  life 

Could  then  avail ! 
I  dare  not  ask  for  rest  or  strife 

If  love  should  fail. 

THOMAS   STURGE   MOORE    (1870-       ) 
J  Duet 

"T^LOWERS  nodding  gaily,  scent  in  air, 
Flowers  posied,  flowers  for  the  hair. 
Sleepy  flowers,  flowers  bold  to  stare " 

"O  pick  me  some  !" 
"Shells  with  lip,  or  tooth,  or  bleeding  gum; 
Tell-tale  shells,  and  shells  that  whisper  Come, 
Shells  that  stammer,  blush,  and  yet  are  dumb " 

"O  let  me  hear." 
Eyes  so  black  they  draw  one  trembling  near, 
Brown  eyes,  caverns  flooded  with  a  tear, 
Qoudless  eyes,  blue  eyes  so  windy  clear " 

•'O  look  at  me." 


508    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

"Kisses  sadly  blown  across  the  sea, 
Darkling  kisses,  kisses  fair  and  free, 

Bob-a-cherry  kisses  'neath  a  tree " 

"O  give  me  one !" 
Thus  sang  a  king  and  queen  in  Babylon. 


HILLAIRE   BELLOC    (1870-        ) 
The  Early  Morning 

'T'HE  moon  on  the  one  hand,  the  dawn  on  the  other: 

The  moon  is  my  sister,  the  dawn  is  my  brother. 
The  moon  on  my  left  hand,  the  dawn  on  my  right. 
My  brother,  good  morning :  my  sister,  good-night. 

COL.  JOHN  McCRAE  (1872-1918) 

In  Flanders'  Fields 

TN  Flanders'   fields   the  poppies  blow 

Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place,  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks  still  singing  bravely  fly. 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  dead.     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sun-set  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders'  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe ! 
To  you,  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch — be  yours  to  hold  it  high ! 
If  yc  break  faith  with  us  who  die. 
We  shall  not  sleep,  tho  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders'  fields. 

DORA  SIGERSON   SHORTER   (1873-        ) 

Ireland 

''T'WAS  the  dream  of  a  God, 

And  the  mould  of  His  hand, 
That  you  shook  'neath  this  stroke, 
That  3'ou  trembled  and  broke 
To  this  beautiful  land. 


WALTER  DE  LA  MARE  509 

Here  He  loosed  from  His  hold 

A  brown  tumult  of  wings, 
Till  the  wind  on  the  sea 
Bore  the  strange  melody 

Of  an  island  that  sings. 

He  made  you  all  fair, 

You  in  purple  and  gold, 
You  in  silver  and  green, 
Till  no  eye  that  has  seen 

Without  love  can  behold. 

I  have  left  you  behind 

In  the  path  of  the  past. 
With    the    white    breath    of    flowers, 
With  the  best  of  God's  hours, 

I  have  left  you  at  last. 

WALTER   DE   LA   MARE    (1873-        ) 
The  Listeners 

'*TS  there  anybody  there?"  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door  ; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor: 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head  : 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time ; 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men : 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark  stair. 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness. 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry. 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky ; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and  lifted  his  head : — 


510    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

"Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered, 

That  I  kept  my  word,"  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners. 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still  house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake : 
Ay,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup, 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone, 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward, 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 

Queen  Djenira 

■^^HEN  Queen  Djenira  slumbers  through 
''         The  sultry  noon's  repose, 
From  out  her  dreams,  as  soft  she  lies, 
A  faint  thin  music  flows. 

Her  lovely  hands  He  narrow  and  pale 

With  gilded  nails,  her  head 
Couched  in  its  banded  nets  of  gold 

Lies  pillowed  on  her  bed. 

The  little  Nubian  boys  who  fan 

Her  cheeks  and  tresses  clear. 
Wonderful,  wonderful,  wonderful  voices 

Seem  afar  to  hear. 

They   slide    their   eyes,    and    nodding,    say, 

"Queen  Djenira  walks  to-day 
The  courts  of  the  lord  Pthamasar 

Where  the  sweet  birds  of  Psuthys  are." 

And  those  of  earth  about  her  porch 

Of  shadow  cool  and  grey 
Their  sidelong  beaks  in  silence  lean. 

And  silent  flit  away. 


//«  Epitaph 


H 


ERE  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 
Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she; 
I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 
That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 
But  beauty  vanishes ;  beauty  passes ; 
However  rare — rare  it  be ; 
And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 
This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  511 

JOHN  MASEFIELD  (1874-        ) 

Flesh,  I  Have  Knocked  at  Many  a  Dusty  Door 

ULESH,  I  have  knocked  at  many  a  dusty  door, 

Gone  down  full  many  a  windy  midnight  lane, 
Probed  in  old  walls  and  felt  along  the  floor, 
Pressed  in  blind  hope  the  lighted  window-pane. 
But  useless  all,  though  sometimes,  when  the  moon 
Was  full  in  heaven  and  the  sea  was  full, 
Along  my  body's  alleys  came  a  tune 
Plaj'ed  in  the  tavern  by  the  Beautiful. 
Then  for  an  instant  I  have  felt  at  point 
To  find  and  seize  her,  whosoe'er  she  be, 
Whether  some  saint  whose  glory  does  anoint 
Those  whom  she  loves,  or  but  a  part  of  me. 
Or  something  that  the  things  not  understood 
Make  for  their  uses  out  of  flesh  and  blood. 

There,  on  the  darkened  deathbed,  dies  the  brain 
That  flared  three  several  times  in  seventy  years ; 
It  cannot  lift  the  silly  hand  again, 
Nor  speak,  nor  sing,  it  neither  sees  nor  hears. 
And  muffled  mourners  put  it  in  the  ground 
And  then  go  home,  and  in  the  earth  it  lies. 
Too  dark  for  vision  and  too  deep  for  sound, 
The  million  cells  that  made  a  good  man  wise. 
Yet  for  a  few  short  years  an  influence  stirs 
A  sense  or  wraith  or  essence  of  him  dead. 
Which  makes  insensate  things  its  ministers 
To  those  beloved,  his  spirit's  daily  bread ; 
Then  that,  too,  fades ;  in  book  or  deed  a  spark 
Lingers,  then  that,  too,  fades ;  then  all  is  dark. 

Roses  are  beauty,  but  I  never  see 

Those  blood  drops  from  the  burning  heart  of  June 

Glowing  like  thought  upon  the  living  tree. 

Without  a  pity  that  they  die  so  soon, 

Die  into  petals,  like  those  roses  old. 

Those  women,  who  were  summer  in  men's  hearts 

Before  the  smile  upon  the  Sphinx  was  cold, 

Or  sand  had  hid  the  Syrian  and  his  arts. 

O  myriad  dust  of  beauty  that  lies  thick 

Under  our  feet  that  not  a  single  grain 

But  stirred  and  moved  in  beauty  and  was  quick 

For  one  brief  moon  and  died  nor  lived  again; 

But  when  the  moon  rose  lay  upon  the  grass 

Pasture  to  living  beauty,  life  that  was. 


512    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  other  form  of  Living  does  not  stir; 

Where  the  seed  chances  there  it  roots  and  grows, 

To  suck  what  makes  the  Hly  or  the  fir 

Out  of  the  earth  and  from  the  air  that  blows. 

Great  power  of  Will  that  little  thing  the  seed 

Has,  all  alone  in  earth,  to  plan  the  tree, 

And,  though  the  mud  oppresses,  to  succeed. 

And  put  out  branches  where  the  birds  may  be. 

Then  the  wind  blows  it,  but  the  bending  boughs 

Exult  like  billows,  and  their  million  green 

Drink  the  all-living  sunlight  in  carouse. 

Like  dainty  harts  where  forest  wells  are  clean. 

While  it,  the  central  plant,  which  looks  o'er  miles, 

Draws  milk  from  the  earth's  breast,  and  sways,  and  smiles. 

I  saw  her  hke  a  shadow  on  the  sky 

In  the  last  light,  a  blur  upon  the  sea, 

Then  the  gale's  darkness  put  the  shadow  by. 

But  from  one  grave  that  island  talked  to  me ; 

And,  in  the  midnight,  in  the  breaking  storm, 

I  saw  its  blackness  and  a  blinking  light. 

And   thought,    "So   death   obscures   your  gentle    form. 

So  memory  strives  to  make  the  darkness  bright ; 

And,  in  that  heap  of  rocks,  your  body  lies, 

Part  of  the  island  till  the  planet  ends. 

My  gentle  comrade,  beautiful  and  wise, 

Part  of  this  crag  this  bitter  surge  offends. 

While  I,  who  pass,  a  little  obscure  thing. 

War  with  this  force,  and  breathe,  and  am  its  king." 

You  will  remember  me  in  days  to  come 

With  love,  or  pride,  or  pity,  or  contempt; 

So  will  my  friends  (not  many  friends,  yet  some) 

When  this  my  life  will  be  a  dream  out-dreamt; 

And  one,  remembering  friendship  by  the  fire. 

And  one,  remembering  love  time  in  the  dark, 

And   one,  remembering  unfulfilled   desire. 

Will  sigh,  perhaps,  yet  be  beside  the  mark; 

For  this  my  body  with  its  wandering  ghost 

Is  nothing  solely  but  an  empty  grange. 

Dark  in  a  night  that  owls  inhabit  most. 

Yet  when  the  king  rides  by  there  comes  a  change; 

The  windows  gleam,  the  cresset's  fiery  hair 

Blasts  the  blown  branch  and  beauty  lodges  there. 

Ships 

T  CANNOT  tell  their  wonder  nor  make  known 

Magic  that  once  thrilled  through  me  to  the  bone ; 
But  all  men  praise  some  beauty,  tell  some  tale. 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  513 

Vent  a  high  mood  which  makes  the  rest  seem  pale, 
Pour  their  heart's  blood  to  flourish  one  green  leaf. 
Follow  some  Helen  for  her  gift  of  grief, 
And  fail  in  what  they  mean,  whate'er  they  do: 
You  should  have  seen,  man  cannot  tell  to  you 
The  beauty  of  the  ships  of  that  my  city. 

That  beauty  now  is  spoiled  by  the  sea's  pity; 

For  one  may  haunt  the  pier  a  score  of  times, 

Hearing  St.  Nicholas  bells  ring  out  the  chimes, 

Yet  never  see  the  proud  ones  swaying  home 

With  mainyards  backed  and  bows  a  cream  of  foam. 

Those  bows  so  lovely  curving,  cut  so  fine, 

Those  coulters  of  the  many-bubbled  brine. 

As  once,  long  since,  when  all  the  docks  were  filled 

With  that  sea-beauty  man  has  ceased  to  build. 

Yet,  though  their  splendor  may  have  ceased  to  be 
Each  played  her  sovereign  part  in  making  me ; 
Now  I  return  my  thanks  with  heart  and  lips 
For  the  great  queenliness  of  all  those  ships. 

And  first  the  first  bright  memory,  still  so  clear, 
An  autumn  evening  in  a  golden  year. 
When  in  the  last  lit  moments  before  dark 
The  Chepica,  a  steel-gray  lovely  barque, 
Came  to  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood. 
Her  trucks  aloft  in  sun-glow  red  as  blood. 

Then  come  so  many  ships  that  I  could  fill 

Three  docks  with  their  fair  hulls  remembered  still, 

Each  with  her  special  memory's  special  grace. 

Riding  the  sea,  making  the  waves  give  place 

To  delicate  high  beauty ;  man's  best  strength, 

Noble  in  every  line  in  all  their  length. 

Ailsa,  Genista,  ships  with  long  jibbooms. 

The  Wand'jrcr  with  great  beauty  and  strange  dooms, 

Liverpool  (mightiest  then)   superb,  sublime. 

The  California  huge,  as  slow  as  time. 

The  Copley  swift,  the  perfect  /.  T.  North, 

The  loveliest  barque  my  city  has  sent  forth. 

Dainty  John  Lockett  well  remembered  yet, 

The  splendid  Argus  with  her  sky-sail  set, 

Stalwart  Drumcliff,  white-blocked,   majestic  Sierras, 

Divine  bright  ships,  the  water's   standard-bearers ; 

Melpomene,  Euphrosyne,  and  their  sweet 

Sea-troubling  sisters  of  the  Fernie  fleet ; 

Corunna  (in  whom  my  friend  died)  and  the  old 

Long  since  loved  Esmeralda,  long  since  sold. 


514    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Centurion  passed  in  Rio,  Glaucus  spoken, 
Aladdin  burnt,  the  Bidston  water-broken, 
Yola,  in  whom  my  friend  sailed,  Dawpool  trim, 
Fierce-bowed  Egeria  plunging  to  the  swim, 
Stanmore  wide-sterned,  sweet  Cupica,  tall  Bard, 
Queen  in  all  harbors  with  her  moon-sail  yard. 

Though  I  tell  many,  there  must  still  be  others, 
McVickar  Marshall's  ships  and  Fernie  Brothers', 
Lochs,   Counties,  Shires,  Drums,  the  countless  lines 
Whose  house-flags  once  were  all  familiar  signs 
At  high  main-trucks  on  Mersey's  windy  ways 
When  sunlight  made  the  wind-white  water  blaze. 
Their  names  bring  back  old  mornings,  when  the  docks 
Shone  with  their  house-flags  and  their  painted  blocks, 
Their  raking  masts  below  the  Custom  House 
And  all  the  marvellous  beauty  of  their  bows. 

Familiar  steamers,  too,  familiar  steamers, 
Shearing  Atlantic  roller-tops  to  streamers, 
Umbria,  Etruria,  noble,  still  at  sea. 
The  grandest,  then,  that  man  had  brought  to  be. 
Majestic,  City  of  Paris,  City  of  Rome, 
Forever  jealous  racers,  out  and  home. 

The  Alfred  Holt's  blue  smoke-stacks  down  the  stream, 

The  fair  Loanda  with  her  bows  a-cream. 

Booth  liners.  Anchor  liners,  Red  Star  liners. 

The  marks  and  st^'les  of  countless  ship-designers, 

The  Magdalcna,  Puno,  Potosi, 

Lost  Cotopaxi,  all  well-known  to  me. 

These  splendid  ships,  each  with  her  grace,  her  glory, 

Her  memory  of  old  song  or  comrade's  story, 

Still  in  my  mind  the  image  of  life's  need, 

Beauty  in  hardest  action,  beauty  indeed. 

"They  built  great  ships  and  sailed  them"  sounds  most 

brave. 
Whatever  arts  we  have  or  fail  to  have. 
I  touch  my  country's  mind,  I  come  to  grips 
With  half  her  purpose,  thinking  of  these  ships: 
That  art  untouched  by  softness,  all  that  line 
Drawn  ringing  hard  to  stand  the  test  of  brine; 
That  nobleness  and  grandeur,  all  that  beauty 
Born  of  a  manj-  life  and  bitter  dutjs 
That  splendor  of  fine  bows  which  yet  could  stand 
The  shock  of  rollers  never  checked  by  land ; 
That  art  of  masts,  sail-crowded,  fit  to  break. 
Yet  stayed  to  strength  and  backstayed  into  rake; 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  515 

The  life  demanded  by  that  art,  the  keen 
Eye-puckered,  hard-cased  seamen,  silent,  lean. 
They  are  grander  than  all  the  art  of  towns ; 
Their  tests  are  tempests  and  the  sea  that  drowns. 
They  are  my  country's  line,  her  great  art  done 
By  strong  brains  laboring  oifi  the  thought  unwon. 
They  mark  our  passage  as  a  race  of  men — 
Earth  will  not  see  such  ships  as  those  again. 

Cargoes 

OUINQUIREME  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 
Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 
With  a  cargo  of  ivory. 
And  apes  and  peacocks, 
Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  white  wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus 

Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts. 

Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smoke  stack, 

Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal. 

Road-rails,  pig-lead. 

Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 

Sea-Fever 

T  must  go  down   to  the   seas   again,   to   the  lonely   sea   and 

the  sky. 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by ; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white  sail's 

shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face  and  a  grey  dawn  breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running 

tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied ; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying. 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea-gulls 

crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant  gypsy  life. 
To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the  wind's  like 

a  whetted  knife ; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow-rover, 
And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trick's 

over. 


516    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Prayer 

"IXTHEN   the   last   sea   is   sailed,   when   the  last   shallow's 

'  charted. 

When  the  last  field  is  reaped,  and  the  last  harvest  stored, 
When  the  last  fire  is  out  and  the  last  guest  departed, 
Grant  the  last  prayer  that  I  shall  pray,  be  good  to  me,  O  Lord. 

And  let  me  pass  in  a  night  at  sea,  a  night  of   storm  and 

thunder, 
In  the  loud  crying  of  the  wind  through  sail  and  rope  and  spar. 
Send  me  a  ninth  great  peaceful  wave  to  drown  and  roll  me 

under 
To  the  cold  tunny-fish's  home  where  the  drowned  galleons  are. 

And  in  the  dim  green  quiet  place  far  out  of  sight  and  hearing, 
Grant  I  may  hear  at  whiles  the  wash  and  thresh  of  the  sea- 
foam 
About  the  fine  keen  bows  of  the  stately  clippers  steering 
Towards  the  lone  northern  star  and  the  fair  ports  of  home. 

GORDON  BOTTOMLEY   (1874-       ) 

In  Memoriam 

A.  M.  W. 

September,  1910 

(For  a  Solemn  Music) 

Out  of  a  silence 

The  voice  of  music  speaks. 

When    words   have   no   more   power, 

When  tears  can  tell  no  more, 

The  heart  of  all  regret 

Is  uttered  by  a  falling  wave 

Of  melody. 

No  more,  no  more 

The  voice  that  gathered  us 

Shall  hush  us  with  deep  joy; 

But  in  this  hush, 

Out  of  its  silence, 

In  the  awaking  of  music. 

It  shall  return. 

For  music   can   renew 

Its  gladness  and  communion. 

Until  we  also  sink. 

Where  sinks  the  voice  of  music. 

Into  a  silence. 


GILBERT  KEITH  CHESTERTON  517 

GILBERT  KEITH  CHESTERTON   (1874-        ) 
From  "The  Ballad  of  the  White  Horse*' 

TIP  over  windy  wastes  and  up 

Went  Alfred  over  the  shaws, 
Shaken  of  the  joy  of  giants, 
The  joy  without  a  cause. 

In  the  slopes  away  to  the  western  bays, 

Where  blows  not  ever  a  tree, 
He  washed  his  soul  in  the  west  wind 

And  his  body  in  the  sea. 

And   he   set  to   rhyme   his   ale-measures 

And  he  sang  aloud  his  laws ; 
Because  of  the  joy  of  the  giants, 

The  joy  without  a  cause. 

For  the  King  went  gathering  Wessex  men 

As  grain  out  of  the  chaff ; 
The  few  that  were  alive  to  die, 
Laughing,  as  littered  skulls  that  lie 
After  lost  battles  turn  to  the  sky 

An  everlasting  laugh. 

The  King  went  gathering  Christian  men 

As  wheat  out  of  the  husk; 
Eldred  the  Franklin  by  the  sea. 
And  Mark,  the  man  from  Italy, 
And  Golan  of  the  Sacred  Tree, 

From  the  old  tribe  on  Usk. 

The  rook  croaked  homeward  heavily. 

The  west  was  clear  and  warm, 
The  smoke  of  evening  food  and  ease 
Rose  like  a  blue  tree  in  the  trees 

When  he  came  to  Eldred's  farm. 

But  Eldred's  farm  was  fallen  awry, 

Like  an  old  cripple's  bones. 
And  Eldred's  tools  were  red  with  rust; 
And  on  his  well  was  a  green  crust, 
And  purple  thistles  upward  thrust 

Between  the  kitchen  stones. 

But  smoke  of  some  good  feasting 

Went  upwards  evermore, 
And  Eldred's  doors  stood  wide  apart 
For  loitering  foot  or  labouring  cart ; 
And  Eldred's  great  and  foolish  heart 

Stood  open,  like  his  door. 


518    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

A  mighty  man  was  Eldred; 

A  bulk  for  casks  to  fill ; 
His  face  a  dreaming  furnace, 

His  body  a  walking  hill. 

In  the  old  wars  of  Wessex 

His  sword  had  sunken  deep, 
But  all  his  friends,  he  sighed  and  said, 
Were  broken  about  Ethelred ; 
And  between  the  deep  drink  and  the  dead 

He  had  fallen  upon  sleep. 

"Come  not  to  me.  King  Alfred, 

Save  always  for  the  ale ; 
Why  should  my  harmless  hinds  be  slain 
Because  the  chiefs  cry  once  again. 
As  in  all  fights,  that  we  shall  gain. 

And  in  all  fights  we  fail. 

"Your  scalds  still  thunder  and  prophesy 

That  crown  that  never  comes ; 
Friend,  I  will  watch  the  certain  things. 
Swine,  and  slow  moons  like  silver  rings, 

And  the  ripening  of  the  plums." 

Glencoe 

'T'HE  star-crowned  cliflFs  seem  hinged  upon  the  sky, 
■^     The  clouds  are  floating  rags  across  them  curled. 
They  open  to  us  like  the  gates  of  God 
Cloven  in  the  last  great  wall  of  all  the  world. 

I  looked,  and  saw  the  valley  of  my  soul 
Where  naked  crests  fight  to  achieve  the  skies. 
Where  no  grain  grows  nor  wine,  no   fruitful  thing. 
Only  big  words  and  stony  blasphemies. 

But  you  have  clothed  with  mercy  like  a  moss 

The  barren  violence  of  its  primal  wars. 

Sterile  although  they  be  and  void  of  rule, 

You  know  my  shapeless  crags  have  loved  the  stars. 

How  shall  I  thank  you,  O  courageous  heart. 
That  of  this  wasteful  world  you  had  no  fear; 
But  bade  it  blossom  in  clear  faith  and  sent 
Your  fair  flower-feeding  rivers :  even  as  here 

The  peat  burns  brimming  from  their  cups   of  stone 
Glow  brown  and  blood-red  down  the  vast  decline 
As  if  Christ  stood  on  yonder  clouded  peak 
And  turned  its  thousand  waters  into  wine. 


EDWARD  THOMAS  519 

EDWARD   THOMAS    (1878-1917) 

The  Unknown 

CHE  is  most  fair, 

^  And  when  they  see  her  pass 

The  poets'  ladies 

Look  no  more  in  the  glass 

But  after  her. 

On  a  bleak  moor 
Running  under  the  moon 
She  lures  a  poet, 
Once  proud  or  happy,  soon 
Far  from  his  door. 

Beside  a  train, 
Because  they  saw  her  go, 
Or  failed  to  see  her. 
Travellers   and  watchers  know 
Another  pain. 

The  simple  lack 
Of  her  is  more  to  me 
Than  others'  presence, 
Whether  life  splendid  be 
Or  utter  black. 

I  have  not  seen, 

I  have  no  news  of  her* 

I  can  tell  only 

She  is  not  here,  but  there 

She  might  have  been. 

She  is  to  be  kissed 
Only  perhaps  by  me ; 
She  may  be  seeking 
Me  and  no  other :  she 
May  not  exist. 

THOMAS  MACDONAGH  (1878-1916) 
To  His  Ideal 


Translated  from  the  Irish  of  Padraic  Pearse 

■AKED  I  saw  thee. 
O  beauty  of  beauty! 
And  I  blinded  my  eyes 
For  fear  I  should  flinch. 


N' 


520    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

I  heard  thy  music. 

0  sweetness  of  sweetness  I 
And  I  shut  my  ears 

For  fear  I  should  fail. 

1  kissed  thy  lips, 

0  sweetness  of  sweetness! 
And  I  hardened  my  heart 
For  fear  of  my  ruin. 

1  blinded  my  eyes, 
And  my  ears  I  shut ; 
I  hardened  my  heart, 
And  my  love  I  quenched. 

I  turned  my  back 
On  the  dream  I  had  shaped, 
And  to  this  road  before  me 
My  face  I  turned. 

I  set  my  face 

To  the  road  here  before  me ; 

To  the  work  that  I  see. 

To  the  death  that  I  shall  meet. 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON  (1878-        ) 
Daily  Bread 

A  LL  life  moving  to  one  measure — 
•'^   Daily  bread,  daily  bread — 
Bread  of  life,  and  bread  of  labour. 
Bread  of  bitterness  and  sorrow. 
Hand-to-mouth,  and  no  to-morrow, 
Death  for  housemate,  death  for  neighbor  .  .  . 
"Yet  when  all  the  babes  are  fed. 
Love,  are  there  no  crumbs  to  treasure?" 

RALPH  HODGSON  (1878?-) 
The  Mystery 

XJE  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

Up  to  a  red  rose  tree. 
He  kept  His  meaning  to  Himself 
But  gave  a  rose  to  me. 

I  did  not  pray  Him  to  lay  bare 

The  mystery  to  me : 
Enough  the  rose  was  Heaven  to  smell, 

And  His  own  face  to  see. 


HAROLD  MONRO  521 

HAROLD  MONRO  (1879-        ) 
Youth  in  Arms 

"LTAPPY  boy,  happy  boy,_ 

David  the  immortal-willed, 
Youth  a  thousand  times 
Slain,  but  not  once  killed, 
Swaggering  again  to-day 
In  the  old  contemptuous  way; 

Leaning  backward  from  your  thigh 
Up  against  the  tinselled  bar — 
Lust  and  ashes!  is  it  you? 
Laughing,  boasting,  there  you  are  I 
First  we  hardly  rerognized  you 
In  your  modern  avatar. 

Soldier,  rifle,  brown  khaki — 
Is  your  blood  as  happy  so? 
Where's  your  sling  or  painted  shield, 
Helmet,  you're  going  to  the  wars — 
Well,  you're  going  to  the  wars — 
That  is  all  you  need  to  know. 

Graybeards  plotted.     They  were  sad. 
Death  was  in  their  wrinkled  eyes. 
At  their  tables — with  their  maps, 
Plans  and  calculations — wise 
They  all  seemed ;  for  well  they  knew 
How  ungrudgingly  Youth  dies. 

At  their  green  official  baize 
They  debated  all  the  night 
Plans  for  your  adventurous  days 
Which  you  followed  with  delight. 
Youth  in   all  your   wanderings, 
David  of  a  thousand  slings. 

ALFRED  NO  YES  (1880-       ) 
Haunted  in  Old  Japan 

ll^'USIC  of  the  star-shine  shimmering  o'er  the  sea 

•*■  Mirror  me  no  longer  in  the  dusk  of  memory: 
Dim  and  white  the  rose-leaves  drift  along  the  shore. 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  morel 


522    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

All  along  the  purple  creek,  lit  zvith  silver  foam, 
Silent,  silent  voices,  cry  no  more  of  home! 
Soft  beyond  the  cherry-trees,  o'er  the  dim  lagoon, 
Damns  the  crivison  lantern  of  the  large  low  moon. 

We  that  loved  in  April,  we  that  turned  away 
Laughing  ere  the  wood-dove  crooned  across  the  May, 
Watch  the  withered   rose-leaves   drift  along  the   shore. 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more ! 

We  the  Sons  of  Reason,  we  that  chose  to  bride 
Knowledge,   and  rejected  the  Dream  that  we  denied, 
We  that  chose  the  Wisdom  that  triumphs   for  an  hour, 
We  that  let  the  young  love  perish  like  a  flower.  .  .  . 

We  that  hurt  the  kind  heart,  we  that  went  astray, 

We  that  in  the  darkness  idly  dreamed  of  day.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Ah!     The  dreary  rose-leaves   drift  along  the  shore. 

Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more  1 

Lonely  starry  faces,  wonderful  and  white, 

Yearning  with  a  cry  across  the  dim  sweet  night. 

All  our  dreams  are  blown   a-drift  as   flowers  before   a    fan. 

All  our  hearts  are  haunted  in  the  heart  of  old  Japan. 

Haunted,   haunted,   haunted — we   that  mocked  and   sinned 
Hear  the  vanished  voices  wailing  down  the  wind, 
Watch  the  ruined  rose-leaves  drift  along  the  shore. 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more  I 

All  along  the  purple  creek,  lit  with  silver  foam. 
Sobbing,  sobbing  voices,  cry  no  more  of  home! 
Soft  beyond  the  cherry-trees,  o'er  the  dim  lagoon, 
Dawns  the  crimson  lantern  of  the  large  low  moon. 


A  Japanese  Love-Sotig 

'  I  ""HE  young  moon  is  white. 

But  the  willows  are  blue : 
Your  small  lips  are   red. 

But  the  great  clouds  are  gray : 
The  waves  are  so  many 

That  whisper  to  you ; 
But  my  love  is  only 

One  flight  of  spray. 


FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE  523 

The  bright  drops  are  many, 

The  dark  wave  is  one : 
The  dark  wave  subsides, 

And  the  bright  sea  remains  I 
And  wherever,  O  singing 

Maid,  you  run, 
You  are  one  with  the  world 

For  all  your  pains. 

Tho'  the  great  skies  are  dark,^ 

And  your  small  feet  are  white, 
Tho'  your  wide  eyes  are  blue 

And  the  closed  poppies  red, 
Tho,  the  kisses  are  many 

That  colour  the  night, 
They  are  linked  like  pearls 

On  one  golden  thread. 

Were  the  gray  clouds  not  made 

For  the  red  of  your  mouth; 
The  ages  for  flight 

Of  the  butterfly  years ; 
The  sweet  of  the  peach 

For  the  pale  lips  of  drouth, 
The  sunlight  of  smiles 

For  the  shadow  of  tears? 

Love,  Love  is  the  thread 

That  has  pierced  them  with  bliss  I 
All  their  hues  are  but  notes 

In  one  world-wide  tune : 
Lips,  willows  and  waves, 

We  are  one  as  we  kiss, 
And  your  face  and  the  flowers 

Faint  away  in  the  moon. 


FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE  (1881-1917) 
The  Wife  of  Llew 

A  ND  Gwydion  said  to  Math,  when  it  was  Spring : 

"Come  now  and  let  us  make  a  wife  for  Llew." 
And  so  they  broke  broad  boughs  yet  moist  with  dew, 
And  in  a  shadow  made  a  magic  ring: 
They  took  the  violet  and  the  meadow-sweet 
To  form  her  pretty  face,  and  for  her  feet 


524    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF   ENGLISH  VERSE 

They  built  a  mound  of  daisies  on  a  wing, 
And  for  her  voice  thcj-  made  a  linnet  sing 
In  the  wide  poppy  blowing  for  her  mouth. 
And  over  all  they  chanted  twenty  hours. 
And  Llevv  came  singing  from  the  azure  south 
And  bore  away  his  wife  of  birds  and  flowers. 

Groiv'ing  Old 

WE'LL  fill  a  Provence  bowl  and  pledge  us  deep 
The   memory  of   the    far   ones    and   between 
The  soothing  pipes,  in  heavy-lidded  sleep, 
Perhaps  we'll  dream  the  things  that  once  have  been. 
'Tis  only  noon  and  still  too  soon  to  die, 
Yet  we  are  growing  old,  my  heart  and  I. 

A  hundred  books  are  ready  in  my  head 
To  open  out  where  Beauty  bent  a  leaf. 
What  do  we  want  with  Beauty?    We  are  wed 
Like  ancient  Proserpine  to  dismal  grief. 
And  we  are  changing  with  the  hours  that  fly, 
And  growing  odd  and  old,  my  heart  and  I. 

Across  a  bed  of  bells  the  river  flows, 
And  roses  dawn,  but  not  for  us ;  we  want 
The  new  thing  ever  as  the  old  thing  grows 
Spectral  and  weary  on  the  hills  we  haunt. 
And  that  is  why  we  feast,  and  that  is  why 
We're  growing  odd  and  old,  my  heart  and  L 

JOHN    DRINKWATER    (1882-        ) 
A  Man's  Daughter 

nn  HERE  is  an  old  woman  who  looks  each  night 

Out  of  tiie  wood. 
She  has  one  tooth,  that  isn't  too  white. 
She  isn't  too  good. 

She  came  from  the  north  looking  for  me, 

About  my  jewel. 
Her  son,  she  says,  is  tall  as  can  be; 

But,  men  say,  cruel. 

My  girl  went  northward,  holiday  making, 

And  a  queer  man  spoke 
At  the  woodside  once  when  night  was  breaking, 

And  her  heart  broke. 

For  ever  since  she  has  pined  and  pined, 

A  sorry  maid ; 
Her  fingers  are  slack  as  the  wool  they  wind, 

Or  her  girdle-braid. 


RICHARD  MIDDLETON  525 

So  now  shall  I  send  her  north  to  wed, 

Who  here  may  know 
Only  the  little  house  of  the  dead 

To  ease  her  woe? 

Or  keep  her  for  fear  of  that  old  v.oman, 

As   a  bird   quick-ey^d, 
And  her  tall  son  who  is  hardly  human, 

At  the  woodside? 

She  is  mj^  babe  and  my  daughter  dear, 

How  well,  how  well. 
Her  grief  to  me  is  a  fourfold  fear. 

Tongue  cannot  tell. 

And  yet  I  know  that  far  in  that  wood 

Are   crumbling   bones, 
And  a  mumble  mumble  of  nothing  that's  good, 

In  heathen  tones. 

And  I  know  that  frail  ghosts  flutter  and  sigh 

In  brambles  there, 
And  never  a  bird  or  beast  to  cry- — 

Beware,  beware. 

While  threading  the  silent  thickets  go 

Mother  and  son. 
Where  scrupulous  berries  never  grow, 

And  airs  are  none. 

And  her  deep  eyes  peer  at  eventide 

Out  of  the  wood. 
And  her  tall  son  waits  by  the  dark  woodside, 

For  maidenhood. 

And  the  little  eyes  peer,  and  peer,  and  peer ; 

And  a  word  is  said. 
And  some  house  knows,  for  many  a  year. 

But  years  of  dread. 

RICHARD  MIDDLETON  (1882-1911) 

To  A.  C.  M. 

"^HOU  art  my  dream,  but  for  my  last  delight 

Thou  art  transformed  to  sweetest  shape  by  day. 
And  o'er  the  rosy  hills  and  far  away, 

There  pass  the  sombre  fancies  of  my  night, 
With  their  sad  lips  and  eyelids  red  with  tears, 
And  their  dominion  of  my  barren  years. 


526    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

I  am  as  one  who  goes  to  meet  the  dawn 
After  a  night  of  sorrow,  where  she  takes 
The  meadows  with  her  silver  feet,  and  wakes 

The  drowsy  daisies  on  the  dewy  lawn ; 
Upon  my  forehead  falls  her  healing  kiss, 
Night  has  her  balm,  but  none  so  sweet  as  this. 

Yet  that  dim  spirit  of  imagined  things 

And  love  desired  that  filled  the  shadowy  way 
With  wistful  laughter  of  young  fauns  at  play, 

Gleam  of  quick  feet  and  tumult  of  faint  wings — 
Has  touched  thy  lips  with  sleep-wrought  memories, 
And  set  a  star-lit  wonder  in  thine  eyes. 

So  while  I  marvel  still  how  fair  thou  art 
With  thy  day-roses,  there  remains  with  me 
The  glory  of  the  night's  tranquillity. 

Dream   within  dream,  heart  upon  sleeping  heart, 
As  though  we  wandered  where  the  moon  doth  keep 
Upon  the  frosty  hills  her  silent  sleep. 

Thou  hast  been  given  the  magic  of  all  hours. 
Day's  joys,  night's  wonder,  in  thy  little  hands 
Thou  hast  the  gifts  of  all  desirous  lands; 

What  may  I  give  thee  then?  these  sunlit  flowers, 
These  blossoms  of  the  night  to  thee  belong, 
And  thine  is  all  the  merit  of  my  song. 


Heyst-sur-Mer 

TTNDER  the  arch  of  summer 
^    The  great  black  ships  go  by. 
The  sun  is  like  a  bead  of  blood 
Upon  the  wounded  sky. 
The  girls  are  dancing,  dancing, 
And  night  falls  tenderly. 

Would  I  were  on  a  great  ship 
With  the  wind  upon  my  face, 
And  the  water's  music  in  my  ears. 
And  the  rigging's  song  of  grace, 
Would  I  were  on  a  great  ship 
Bound  to  a  new  place. 

Where  trees  are  and  flowers  are 

And  breakers  on  the  shore. 

Where  a  child  might  find  all  the  dreams 


JAMES  JOYCE  527 

That  he  had  known  before, 
Where  I  should  be  at  peace  at  last 
And  the  girls  would  dance  no  more. 

Under  the  arch  of  summer 

The  great  black  ships  go  by, 

There  is  a  madness  in  the  wind, 

A  wonder  in  the  sky, 

And  the  girls  are  dancing,  dancing  .  .  . 

No  peace,  no  peace  have  I. 

JAMES    JOYCE    (1882-        ) 

Golden  Hair 

T    EAN    out    of   the    window 

Goldenhair, 
I  heard  you  singing 
A  merry  air. 

My  book  was  closed, 

I  read  no  more, 
Watching  the  fire  dance 

On  the  floor. 

I  have  left  my  book, 

I  have  left  my  room, 
For  I  heard  you  singing 

Through  the  gloom. 

Singing  and  singing 

A  merry  air, 
Lean  out  of  the  window, 

Goldenhair. 

W.   M.    LETTS    (1882-        ) 

p*  OR  England's  sake  men  give  their  lives 
'*^     And  we  cry  "Brave." 
But  braver  yet 

The  hearts  that  break  and  live 
Having  no  more  to  give. 
Mothers,   sweethearts   and  wives. 
Let  none  forget 
Or  with  averted  head 
Pass  this  great  sorrow  by — 
These  would  how  thankfully  be  dead 
Yet  may  not  die. 


528    THE  MODERN   BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   VERSE 

The  Spires  of  Oxford 

T  saw  the  spires  of  Oxford 
•■•        As  I  was  passing  by, 
The  grey  spires  of  Oxford 

Against  a  pearl-grey  sky ; 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 
Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 

The  golden  years  and  gay ; 
The  hoary  colleges  look  down 

On  careless  boys  at  play. 
But  when  the  bugles  sounded — War  1 

Thej'  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river. 

The  cricket  field,  the  quad, 
The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford 

To  seek  a  bloody  sod. 
They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 

For  country  and  for  God. 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 
Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 

Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 
Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 

God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town. 

LASCELLES    ABERCROMBIE    (1884- 
From  "Mai'riage  So  fig" 
I 
/^OME  up,  dear  chosen  morning,  come. 

Blessing  the  air  with  light. 
And  bid  the  sky  repent  of  being  dark: 
Let  all  the  spaces  round  the  world  be  wfiite, 
And  give  the  earth  her  green  again. 
Into  new  hours  of  beautiful  delight. 
Out  of  the  shadow  where  she  has  lain, 
Bring  the  earth   awake   for  glee, 
Shining  with  dews  as  fresh  and  clear 
As  my  beloved's  voice  upon  the  air. 
For  now,  O  morning  chosen  of  all  days,  on  thee 
A  wondrous  duty  lies  : 

There  was  an  evening  that  did  loveliness  foretell ; 
Thence  upon  thee,  O  chosen  morn,  it  fell 


LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE  529 

To  fashion  into  perfect  destiny 

The  radiant  prophecy. 

For  in  an  evening  of  young  moon,  that  went 

Filling  the  moist  air  with  a  rosy  fire, 

I  and  my  beloved  knew  ovir  love ; 

And  knew  that  thou,  O  morning,  wouldst  arise 

To  give  us  knowledge  of  achieved  desire. 

For,  standing  stricken  with  astonishment, 

Half  terrified  in  the  delight. 

Even  as  the  moon  did  into  clear  air  move 

And  made  a  golden  light, 

Lo  there,  croucht  up  against  it,  a  dark  hill, 

A  monstrous  back  of  earth,  a  spine 

Of  hunched  rock,  furred  with  great  growth  of  nine, 

Lay  like  a  beast,  snout  in  its  paws,  asleep ; 

Yet  in  its  sleeping  seemed  it  miserable, 

As  though  strong  fear  must  always  keep 

Hold  of  its  heart,  and  drive  its  blood  in  dream. 

Yea,  for  to  our  new  love,  did  it  not  seem, 

That  dark  and  quiet  length  of  hill, 

The  sleeping  grief  of  the  world? — Out  of  it  we 

Had  like  imaginations  stept  to  be 

Beauty  and  golden  wonder ;  and  for  the  lovely  fear 

Of  coming  perfect  joy,  had  changed 

The  terror  that  dreamt  there ! 

And  now  the  golden  moon  had  turned 

To  shining  white,  white  as  our  souls  that  burned 

With  vision  of  our  prophecy  assured : 

Suddenly  white  was  the  moon ;  but  she 

At  once  did  on  a  woven  modesty 

Of  cloud,  and  soon  went  in  obscured : 

And  we  were  dark,  and  vanisht  that  strange  hill. 

But  yet  it  was  not  long  before 

There  opened  in  the  sky  a  narrow  door, 

Made  with  pearl  lintel  and  pearl  sill ; 

And  the  earth's  night  seem'd  pressing  there, — 

All  as  a  beggar  on  some  festival  would  peer, — 

To  gaze  into  a  room  of  light  beyond, 

The  hidden  silver  splendour  of  the  moon. 

Yea,  and  we  also,  we 

Long  gazed   wistfully 

Towards  thee,  O  morning,  come  at  last, 

And  towards  the  light  that  thou  wilt  pour  upon  us  soon ! 

IV 

For  wonderfully  to  live  I  now  begin : 
So  that  the  darkness  which  accompanies 
Our  being  here,  is  fasten'd  up  within 


530    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

The  power  of  light  that  holdeth  me ; 

And  from  these  shining  chains,  to  see 

My  joy  with  bold  misliking  eyes, 

The  shrouded  figure  will  not  dare  arise. 

For  henceforth,   from  to-night, 

I  am  wholly  gone  into  the  bright 

Safety  of  the  beauty  of  love : 

Not  only  all  my  waking  vigours  plied 

Under  the  searching  glory  of  love, 

But  knowing  myself  with  love  all  satisfied 

Even  when  my  life  is  hidden  in  sleep; 

As  high  clouds,  to  themselves  that  keep 

The  moon's  white  company,  are  all  possest 

Silverly  with  the  presence  of  their  guest; 

Or  as  a  darken'd  room 

That  hath  within  it  roses,  whence  the  air 

And  quietness  are  taken  everywhere 

Deliciously  by  sweet  perfume. 

Balkis 

From  "Emblems  of  Love" 

RALKIS  was  in  her  marble  town. 

And  shadow  over  the  world  came  down. 
Whiteness  of  walls,  towers  and  piers. 
That  all  day  dazzled  eyes  to  tears, 
Turned  from  being  white-golden  flame, 
And  like  the  deep-sea  blue  became. 
Balkis  into  her  garden  went ; 
Her  spirit  was  in  discontent 
Like  a  torch  in  restless  air. 
Joylessly  she  wandered  where, 
And  saw  her  city's  azure  white 
Lying  under  the  great  night, 
Beautiful  as  the  memory 
Of  a  worshipping  world  would  be 
In  the  mind  of  a  god,  in  the  hour 
When  he  must  kill  his  outward  power; 
And,  coming  to  a  pool  where  trees 
Grew  in  double  greeneries 
Saw  herself,  as  she  went  by 
The  water,  walking  beautifully, 
And  saw  the  stars  shine  in  the  glance 
Of  her  eyes,  and  her  own  fair  countenance 
Passing,  pale  and  wonderful, 
Across  the  night  tliat  filled  the  pool. 
And  cruel   was   the  grief  that  played 
With  the  queen's  spirit;  and  she  said: 


JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER  531 

"What  do  I  hear,  reigning  alone? 
For  to  be  unloved  is  to  be  alone. 
There  is  no  man  in  all  my  land 
Dare  my  longing  imderstand  ; 
The  whole  folk  like  a  peasant  bows 
Lest  its  look  should  meet  my  brows 
And  be  harmed  by  this  beauty  of  mine. 
I  burn  their  brains  as  I  were  sign 
Of  God's  beautiful  anger  sent 
To  master  them  with  punishment 
Of  beauty  that  must  pour  distress 
On  hearts  grown  dark  with  ugliness. 
But  it  is  I  am  the  punished  one. 
Is  there  no  man,  is  there  none, 
In  whom  my  beauty  will  but  move 
The  lust  of  a  delighted  love ; 
In  whom  some  spirit  of  God  so  thrives 
That  we  may  wed  our  lonely  lives? 
Is  there  no  man,  is  there  none?" 
She  said,  "I  will  go  to  Solomon." 

JAMES   ELROY  FLECKER    (1884-1915) 

To  a  Poet  a  Thousand  Years  Hence 

T  who  am  dead  a  thousand  3'ears, 

And  wrote  this  sweet  archaic  song, 
Send  you  my  words  for  messengers 

The  way  I  shall  not  pass  along. 
I  care  not  if  you  bridge  the  seas. 

Or  ride  secure  the  cruel  sky, 
Or  build  consummate  palaces 

Of  metal  or  of  masonry. 

But  have  you  wine  and  music  still, 
And  statues  and  a  bright-eyed  love, 

And  foolish  thoughts  of  good  and  ill. 
And  prayers  to  them  that  sit  above? 

How  shall  we  conquer?    Like  a  wind 
That  falls  at  eve  our  fancies  blow, 

And  old  Moeonides  the  blind 

Said  it  three  thousand  years  ago. 

O  friend,  unseen,  unborn,  unknown, 
Student  of  our  sweet  English  tongue. 

Read  out  my  words  at  night,  alone : 
I  was  a  poet,  I  was  young. 


532    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Since  I  can  never  see  your  face, 
And  never  shake  you  by  the  hand, 

I  send  my  soul  through  time  and  space 
To  greet  you.     You  will  understand. 

RUPERT  BROOKE  (1887-1915) 

The  Hill 

15REATHLESS,  we  flung  us  on  the  windy  hill. 

Laughed  in  the  sun,  and  kissed  the  lovely  grass. 

You  said,  "Through  glory  and  ecstasy  we  pass ; 
Wind,  sun,  and  earth  remain,  the  birds  sing  still. 
When  we  are  old,  are  old.  .  .  ."     "And  when  we  die 

All's  over  that  is  ours;  and  life  burns  on 
Through  other  lovers,  other  lips,"  said  I, 
— "Heart  of  my  heart,   our  heaven   is   now,   is   won !" 
"We  are  Earth's  best,  that  learnt  her  lesson  here. 

Life  is  our  cry.     We  have  kept  the  faith!"  we  said; 

"We  shall  go  down  with  unreluctant  tread 
Rose-crowned  into  the  darkness !"  .  .  .  Proud  we  were, 
And  laughed,  that  had  such  brave  true  things  to  say. 
— And  then  you  suddenly  cried,  and  turned  away. 

Peace 

^JOW,  God  be  thanked  Who  has  matched  us  with  His  hour. 
And  caught  our  youth,  and  wakened  us  from  sleeping, 
With  hand  made  sure,  clear  eye,  and  sharpened  power. 

To  turn,  as  swimmers  into  cleanness  leaping, 
Glad  from  a  world  grown  old  and  cold  and  weary, 

Leave  the  sick  hearts  that  honour  could  not  move,    . 
And  half-men,  and  their  dirty  songs  and  dreary, 

And  all  the  little  emptiness  of  love! 

Oh !    we,    who   have   known    shame,    we   have    found    release 
there. 
Where  there's  no  ill,  no  grief,  but  sleep  has  mending, 
Naught  broken  save  this  body,  lost  but  breath ; 
Nothing  to  shake  the  laughing  heart's  long  peace  there 
But  only  agony,  and  that  has  ending; 

And  the  worst  friend  and  enemy  is  but  Death. 


The  Dead 


B 


LOW  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead  I 

There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old. 
But  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 
These  laid  the  world  away ;  poured  out  the  red 


JAMES    STEPHENS  533 

Sweet  wine  of  youth ;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene, 
That  men  call  age ;  and  those  who  would  have  been, 

Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow !     They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth. 
Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 

Honour  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth, 
And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again ; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

Tlic  Soldier 

TF  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air. 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  awaj', 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given  ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds ;  dreams  happy  as  her  day ; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends ;  and  gentleness. 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

JAMES  STEPHENS 

Deirdre 

T\  O  not  let  any  woman  read  this  verse ; 

It  is  for  men,  and  after  them  their  sons 
And  their  sons'  sons. 

The  time  comes  when  our  hearts  sink  utterly; 
When  we  remember  Deirdre  and  her  tale. 
And  that  her  lips  are  dust. 

Once  she  did  tread  the  earth :  men  took  her  hand ; 
They  looked  into  her  eyes  and  said  their  say. 
And  she  replied  to  them. 

More  than  a  thousand  years  it  is  since  she 
Was  beautiful:  she  trod  the  waving  grass; 
She  saw  the  clouds. 


634    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

A  thousand  years !  The  grass  is  still  the  same, 
The  clouds  as  lovely  as  they  were  that  time 
When  Deirdre  was  alive. 

But  there  has  never  been  a  woman  born 
Who  was  so  beautiful,  not  one  so  beautiful 
Of  all  the  women  born. 

Let  all  men  go  apart  and  mourn  together; 
No  man  can  ever  love  her ;  not  a  man 
Can  ever  be  her  lover. 

No  man  can  ben3  before  her :  no  man  say — 
What  could  one  say  to  her?     There  are  no  words 
That  one  could  say  to  her ! 

Now  she  is  but  a  story  that  is  told 
Beside  the  fire !     No  man  can  ever  be 
The  friend  of  that  poor  queen. 

The  Snare,  to  A.  E. 

T   hear  a  sudden  cry  of  pain  ! 

There  is  a  rabbit  in  a  snare: 
Now  I  hear  the  cry  again, 
But  I  cannot  tell  from  where. 

But  I  cannot  tell  from  where 

He  is  calling  out  for  aid ; 
Crying  on  the  frightened  air, 

Making  everything  afraid. 

Making  everything  afraid, 
Wrinkling  up  his   little   face. 

As  he  cries  again  for  aid ; 
And  I  cannot  find  the  place! 

And  I  cannot  find  the  place 

Where  his  paw  is  in  the  snare: 

Little  one!  Oh,  little  one! 
I  am  searching  everywhere. 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE  (1885-        ) 

All  of  Roses 

I 

15  Y  the  Isar,  in  the  twilight 

We  were  wandering  and  singing; 
By  the  Lsar,  in  the  evening 
We  climbed  the  huntsman's  ladder  and  sat  swinging 


D.    H.    LAWRENCE  535 

In  the  fir-tree  overlooking  the  marshes ; 

While  river  met  vi^ith  river,  and  the  ringing 

Of  their  pale-green  glacier-water  filled  the  evening. 

By  the  Isar,  in  the  twilight 

We  found  our  warm  wild  roses 

Hanging  red  at  the  river ;  and  simmering 

Frogs  were  singing,  and  over  the  river  closes 

Was  scent  of  roses,  and  glimmering 

In  the  twilight,  our  kisses  across  the  roses 

Met,  and  her  face,  and  my  face,  were  roses. 

n 

When  she  rises  in  the  morning 

I  linger  to  watch  her. 

She  stands  in  silhouette  against  the  window, 

And  the  sunbeams  catch  her 

Glistening  white  on  the  shoulders  ; 

While  down  her  sides,  the  mellow 

Golden  shadow  glows,  and  her  breasts 

Swing  like  full-blown  yellow 

Gloire  de  Dijon  roses. 

She  drips  herself  with  water, 

And  her  shoulders 

Glisten  as  silver,  they  crumple  up 

Like  wet  and  shaken  roses,  and  I  listen 

For  the  rustling  of  their  white,  unfolding  petals. 

In  the  window  full  of  sunlight 

She  stirs  her  golden  shadow. 

And  flashes  all  herself  as  sun-bright 

As  if  roses  fought  with  roses. 


Just  a  few  of  the  roses  we  gathered  from  the  Isar 
Are  fallen,  and  their  mauve-red  petals  on  the  cloth 
Float  like  boats  on  a  river,  waiting 
For  a  fairy-wind  to  wake  them  from  their  sloth. 
She  laughs  at  me  across  the  table,  saying 
She  loves  me ;  and  I  blow  a  little  boat 
Rocking  down  the  shoals  between  the  tea-cups 
And  so  kiss-beladen  that  it  scarce  can  float. 


Now  like  a  rose  come  tip-toe  out  of  bud 
I  see  the  woman's  soul  steal  in  her  eyes, 
And  wide  in  ecstasy  I  sit  and  watch 
The  unknown  flower  issued  magic-wise. 


536    THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

And  day  by  day  out  of  the  envious  bud 
My  treasure  softly  slips  uncurled, 
And  day  by  day  my  happiness  vibrates 
In  wide  and  wider  circles  round  the  world. 

SIEGFRIED    SASSOON  (1886-        ) 
To  These  I  Turn,  in  These  I  Trust 

'X'O  these  I  turn,  in  these  I  trust; 
Brother  Lead  and  sister  Steel. 
To  his  blind  power  I  make  appeal ; 
I  guard  her  beauty  clean  from  rust. 
He  skins  and  burns  and  loves  the  air, 
And  splits  a  skull  to  win  my  praise; 
But  up  the  noblj^  marching  days 
She  glitters  naked,  cold  and  fair. 

Sweet  Sister,  grant  your  soldier  this  ; 
That  in  good  fury  he  may  feel 
The  body  where  he  sets  his  heel 
Quail  from  your  downward  darting  kiss. 

RICHARD  ALDINGTON   (1892-        ) 

After  Two  Years 

jCHE  is  all  so  slight 
And  tender  and  white 

As   a   May  morning. 
She  walks  without  hood 
At  dusk.     It  is  good 

To  hear  her  sing. 
It  is  God's  will 
That  I  shall  love  her  still 

As  He  loves  Mary. 
And  night  and  day 
I  will  go  forth  to  pray 

That  she  love  me. 

She  is  as  gold 

Lovely,  and  far  more  cold. 

Do  thou  pray  with  me. 
For  if  I  win  grace 
To  kiss  twice  her  face 

God  has  done  well  to  me. 


ROBERT  NICHOLS  5 

ROBERT    NICHOLS    (1893-        ) 
The  Full  Heart 

A  LONE  on  the  shore  in  the  pause  of  the  night-time 
I  stand  and  I  hear  the  long  wind  blow  light ; 
I  view  the  constellations,  quietly,  quietly  burning ; 
I  hear  the  wave  fall  in  the  hush  of  the  night. 

Long  after  I  am  dead,  ended  this  bitter  journey. 
Many  another  whose  heart  holds  no  light 
Shall  your  solemn  sweetness,  hush,  awe  and  comfort, 
O  my  companions,  Wind,   Waters,  Stars,  and  Night. 

ROBERT  GRAVES 
Not  Dead 

'V^k'LKU>lG  through  trees  to  cool  my  heat  and  pain, 

^    I  know  that  David's  with  me  here  again. 
All  that  is  simple,  happy,  strong,  he  is. 
Caressingly  I  stroke 
Rough  bark  of  the  friendly  oak. 
A  brook  goes  babbling  by:  the  voice  is  his. 
Turf  burns  with  pleasant  smoke ; 
I  laugh  at  chaffinch  and  at  primroses. 
All  that  is  simple,  happy,  strong,  he  is. 
Over  the  whole  wood  in  a  little  while 
Breaks  his  slow  smile. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Abou  Ben  Adhem — may  his  tribe  increase  ! — 243 

A  crowned  Caprice  is  god  of  this  world,  425 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever,  191 

A  fool  there  was  and  he  made  his  prayer,  492 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot!  384 

Ah,  Ben!  113 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain,  333 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love !  153 

Ah,  Sunflower,  weary  of  time,  187 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race !  236 

A  jester  walked  in  the  garden,  486 

A  knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man,  3 

Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth,  234 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies,  428 

A  little  honey!    Ay,  a  little  sweet,  410 

All  life  moving  to  one  measure ,  520 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their  lair —  232 

All  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the  bag  of  one 

bee,  334 
All  the  flowers  of  the  spring,  100 
All  the  world's  a  stage,  80 
All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights,  232 
A  lonely  workman,  standing  there,  408 
Alone  on  the  shore  in  the  pause  of  the  night-time,  537 
_And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time,  187 
'And  Gwydion  said  to  Math,  when  it  was  spring:  523 
And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed,  161 
And  right  anon  as  I  the  day  espied,  4 
An  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate,  88 
A  Paris  gutter  of  the  good  old  times,  425 
A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-liead  it  was,  162 
April,  April.  458 

A  shaft  of  fire  that  falls  like  dew,  503 
As  it  fell  upon  a  day,  97 
As  I  was  walking  all  alone,  27 
Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows,  104 

539 


540  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Ask  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet,  408 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain,  423 

A  sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument, —  371 

A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours,  302 

Assemble,  all  j'e  maidens,  at  the  door,  420 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away,  95 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress,  112 

At  early  dawn  through  London  you  must  go,  458 

At  sixteen  years  she  knew  no  care,  457 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly,  241 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time,  335 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones,  1.34 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where,  82 

B 

Balkis  was  in  her  marble  town,  530 

Beating  Heart !  we  come  again,  340 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead !  322 

Beautiful  must  be  the  mountains  whence  ye  come,  422 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field,  199 

Beneath  the  loveliest  dream  there  coils  a  fear :  393 

Be  not  too  quick  to  carve  our  rhyme,  484 

Bewailing  in  my  chamber,  thus  alone,  7 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live,  113 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead !  532 

Boy,  should  you  meet  a  pretty  wench,  470 

Break,  break,  break,  314 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead,  214 

Breathless,  we  flung  us  on  the  windy  hill,  532 

Bright  Star!  I  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art —  273 

Bury  me  deep  when  I  am  dead,  483 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly!  159 

But  I  came  from  the  dancing  place,  497 

But,  my  good  little  man,  you  have  made  a  mistake,  478 

But  vain  the  Sword  and  vain  the  Bow,  189 

By  the  Isar,  in  the  twilight,  534 

By  the  moon  we  sport  and  play,  53 

By  the  old  Moulmem  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  to  the  sea,  489 

By  this  he  knew  she  wept  with  waking  eyes :    380 


Caliph,  I  did  thee  wrong.     I  hailed  thee  late,  462 
Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren,  99 
Calme  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  a3're,  48 
Calm  soul  of  all  things  !  make  it  mine,  356 
Clerk  Saunders  and  may  Margaret,  24 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  541 

Come,  fill  the  cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring,  290 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,  309 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul,  13 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love,  65 

Come,  spur  away,  116 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, —  73 

Come  up,  dear  chosen  morning,  come,  528 

Comin'  through  the  Rye,  poor  body,  190 

"Courage!"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land,  298 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth,  74 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played,  53 

Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight,  65 

D 

David.     Bright  Bethsabe  shall  wash  in  David's  bower,  59 

Dear  Death? — to  feel  the  frog  in  my  throat,  334 

Dear  love,   for  nothing  less  than  thee,  94 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way?  382 

Do  not  let  any  woman  read  this  verse,  533 

Down  through  the  ancient  Strand,  429 

Drake,  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away,  480 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes,  89 


Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair:   204 
Eilidh,  Eilidh,  Eilidh,  dear  to  me,  dear  and  sweet,  434 
Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind !  248 
Even  such  is  Time,  that  takes  in  trust,  16 


Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see,  112 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France,  63 

False  world,  thou  ly'st :  thou  canst  not  lend,  106 

Farewell,  rewards  and  fairies !  100 

Farewell,  ungrateful  traitor!  153 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale,  169 

Flesh,  I  have  knocked  at  many  a  dusty  door,  511 

"Flowers  nodding  gaily,  scent  in  air,  507 

Fly  from  the  press,  and  dwell  with  sothfastness:  6 

Follow  your  saint,  follow  with  accents  sweet!  83 

For  England's  sake  men  give  their  lives,  527 

Fresh  Spring,  the  herald  of  love's  mighty  king,  53 

From  Eastertide  to  Eastertide,  453 


Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may,  111 


542  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn,  110 

Give  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride,  386 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet,  15 

Give  me  no  mansions  ivory  white,  477 

Go  and  catch  a  falling  star,  96 

God  Lseus,  ever  young,  99 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old —  492 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king,  32 

God  sends  no  message  by  me.     I  am  mute,  482 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pine  o'  wine,  191 

Go,  for  they  call  you.  Shepherd,  from  the  hill :  343 

Go,  lovely  Rose —  118 

Go,  pretty  page  with  the  dimpled  chin,  318 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass,  243 

H 

Had  he  and  I  but  met,  409 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grovel  181 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit!  252 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  314 

Happy  boy.  happy  boy,  521 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I,  150 

Hark,  Hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings,  72 

Has  summer  come  without  the  rose,  417 

Hath  any  loved  you  well  down  there,  419 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow,  90 

Hear  the  voice  of  the  Bard,  187 

He  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand,  520 

He  did  not  wear  his  scarlet  coat,  435 

He  gave  us  all  a  good-by  cheerily,  480 

He  has  conn'd  the  lesson  now,  283 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights,  99 

Hence  loathed  Melancholy,  122 

Hence  vain  deluding  Joys,  125 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worn  lend  thee,  109 

Here,  in  this  sequestered  close,  410 

Here  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady,  510 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King,  156 

Here  where  the  world  is  quiet,  396 

Herod :    Pour  out  these  pearls,  505 

He  that  is  down  needs  fear  no  fall,  151 

He  who  would  start  and  rise,  472 

His  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turned :  59 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead :  313 

How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  fills !  349 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught,  86 

How  many  voices  gaily  sing,  237 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  543 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know,  71 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest,  171 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth,  133 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze,  148 

Hushed  is  each  shout,  481 

I 

arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  260 

cannot  eat  but  little  meat,  12 

cannot  tell  their  wonder  nor  make  known,  513 

care  not  for  these  ladies,  85 

could  not  through  the  burning  day,  507 

did  not  choose  thee,  dearest.     It  was  Love,  410 

did  not  know ;  child,  I  did  not  know,  488 

dreamed  of  him  last  night,  I  saw  his  face,  506 
f  all  the  world  and  love  were  young,  66 
f  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song,  171 
f  I  could  come  again  to  that  dear  place,  485 
f  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me  !  533 
f  I  were  king — ah,  love,  if  I  were  king!  474 

fled  him  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days,  464 
f  love  were  what  the  rose  is,  406 
f  on  some  balmy  summer  night,  458 
f  there  were  dreams  to  sell,  286 
f  thou  hast  squandered  years  to  grave  a  gem,  496 

got  me  flowers  to  strew  Thy  way,  108 

had  a  little  bird,  363 

have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions,  237 

have  no  name,  185 

hear  a  sudden  cry  of  pain!  534 

heard  a  soldier  sing  some  trifle,  497 

intended  an  Ode,  414 

in  the  greyness  rose,  503 

know  a  little  garden-close,  388 

know  that  all  the  moon  decays,  103 

know  you :    solitary  griefs,  500 

love  all  beauteous  things,  419 

made  another  garden,  yea,  418 

must  go   down   to  the   seas   again,   to   the   lonely   sea  and 
the  sky,  515 

must  not  think  of  thee ;  and  tired  yet  strong,  433 
n  a  false  dream  I  saw  the  Foe  prevail,  462 
n  after  days  when  grasses  high,  413 
n  Flanders'  fields  the  poppies  blow,  508 
n  going  to  my  naked  bed,  as  one  that  would  have  slept,  10 
n  Scarlet  town,  where  I  was  born,  21 
n  the  highlands,  in  the  country  places,  432 


544  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

n  the  west  dusk  silver  sweet,  501 

n  these  restrained  and  careful  times,  426 

n  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Kahn,  ;2.30 
said — "Then  dearest,  since  'tis  so,  330 
saw  the  spires  of  Oxford,  528 

sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds  and  bowers,  108 
sing  the  name  which  none  can  say,  142 
singularly  moved,  359 

s  my  team  plowing,  463 

Is  there  anybody  there?"  said  the  traveller,  509 
strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife,  237 
tell  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been,  135 
thought,  beloved,  to  have  brought  to  you,  503 
thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung,  286 

t  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  203 

t  is  an  ancient  Alariner,  214 

t  is  not  growing  like  a  tree,  90 

t  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,  315 

t  must  have  been  for  one  of  us,  my  own,  432 

t  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways !  361 
wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,  202 
was  angry  with  my  friend :  188 
was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd,  177 
went  to  the  Garden  of  Love,  188 
who  am  dead  a  thousand  years,  531 
will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree,  485 
will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother, —  393 
will  make  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight,  431 
wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies,  19 
wonder  by  my  troth,  what  thou  and  I,  93 


Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta,  493 
Jenny  kiss'd  me  when  we  met,  243 
John  Anderson  my  jo,  John,  194 

K 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King,  321 
Kicking  my  heels  in  the  street,  487 


Last  night,  ah,  yesternight,  betwixt  her  lips  and  mine,  500 
Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse,  104 
Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom,  283 
Lean  out  of  the  window,  527 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  545 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse,  327 

Let  us  go  up  and  look  him  in  the  face —  389 

Life !  I  know  not  what  thou  art,  180 

Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words  ;  and  yet,  356 

Like    the    sweet    apple    which    reddens     upon    the    topmost 

bough,  374 
Lo,  if  some  one  should  write  upon  your  rafter,  41G 
Long-expected  One-and-twenty,  165 
Look  in  my  face ;  my  name  is  Might-Have-Been,  373 
Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming,  213 
Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell,  114 
Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee,  58 

Love  is  enough :    though  the  world  be  a-waning,  387 
Love,  that  is  first  and  last  of  all  things  made,  403 
Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  in  verse  my  love  to  show,  53 

M 

Make  me  over.  Mother  April,  474 

Mary !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings,  176 

A'lay !  queen  of  blossoms,  243 

Merrily  sang  the  monkes  in  Ely —  1 

Merry  Margaret,  8 

Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost,  103 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  Saint,  134 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay,  14 

Mother  of  Hermes!  still  youthful  Maia !  263 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold,  262 

Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  a  savage  beast,  158 

Music  of  the  star-shine  shimmering  o'er  the  sea,  521 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die,  261 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore,  249 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  passed,  235 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains,  270 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird,  382 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold,  201 

My  lady's  presence  makes  the  roses  red,  61 

My  little  Son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes,  360 

My  Lute,  awake,  perform  the  last,  9 

My  only  love  is  always  near —  339 

My  silks  and  fine  array,  186 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his,  56 

My  windows  open  to  the  Autumn  night,  498 

N 

Naked  I  saw  thee,  519 

Neighbour  of  the  near  domain,  426 


646  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Nobles  and  heralds,  by  your  leave,  158 
No  coward  soul  is  mine,  336 

None  should  outlive  his  power Who  kills,  457 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist,  267 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note,  251 

Not  drunk  is  he,  who  from  the  floor,  244 

Not  on  the  neck  of  prince  or  hound,  483 

Not  that  I  love  thy  children,  whose  dull  eyes,  451 

Nous  devrions  pourtant  lui  porter  quelques  fleucrs :  398 

Now  along  the  solemn  heights,  471 

Now,  God  be  thanked  Who  has  matched  us  with  His  hour,  532 

Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white,  310 

Now  the  lusty  spring  is  seen,  98 

Now  winter  nights  enlarge,  84 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room,  203 

O 

O  blithe  new-comer !  I  have  heard,  201 

O  brief  and  breathing  creature,  wilt  thou  cease,  504 

O !  do  you  hear  the  rain,  506 

O  Earth,  lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes :    383 

O'er  the  smooth  enamell'd  green,  119 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart,  163 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw,  192 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing,  386 

O  for  a  Muse  of  fire  that  would  ascend,  80 

O  friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look,  204 

O  Goddess !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung  269 

O  God  !  our  help  in  ages  past,  159 

Oh  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find !  325 

Oh  Happiness !  our  being's  end  and  aim,  160 

Oh !  leave  the  past  to  bury  its  own  dead,  409 

Oh,  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible,  337 

Oh !  sing  unto  my  roundelay,  182 

Oh,  to  be  a  cricket,  473 

Oh,  to  be  in  England.  321 

Omar,  dear  Sultan  of  the  Persian  song,  473 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home,  337 

O   Mistress   mine,   where   are  you   roaming?   71 

O  Mortal  folk,  you  may  behold  and  see,  8 

O  my  dark  Rosaleen,  284 

O  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose,  192 

On  a  starr'd  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose,  380 

On  either  side  the  river  lie,  294 

One  lesson,  Nature,  let  me  learn  of  thee,  340 

Onely  Joy,  now  here  you  are,  55 

One  more  Unfortunate,  277 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  547 

One  night  came  Winter  noiselessly  and  leaned,  473 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned,  260 

O  nightingale  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray,  133 

.  .  .  .  O  Prosperpina,  82 

O  reverend  Chaucer!  rose  of  rhetoris  all,  8 

O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines?  279 

O  spread  again  your  leaves  and  flow'rs,  282 

O  surely  now  the  fisherman,  388 

O  swallow,  swallow,  flying,  flying  South,  313 

O  that  'twere  possible,  310 

O  then,  I  see  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you,  79 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free,  355 

O  to  think,  O  to  think  as  I  see  her  stand  there,  482 

Our  revels  now  are  ended :   these  our  actors,  83 

Our  youth  began  with  tears  and  sighs,  424 

Out  of  a  silence,  516 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me,  427 

Over  hill,  over  dais,  68 

O  waly,  waly,  up  the  bank,  20 

O  what  a  plague  is  love !  22 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms,  268 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being,  254 

O  World,  be  nobler,  for  her  sake!  506 


Patience!  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace:  87 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep —  256 

Phoebus,  arise,  102 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild,  185 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood,  213 

Q 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair,  89 
Quinquireme  of  Ninevah  from  distant  Ophir,  515 
Quoth  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife,  282 

R 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away,  383 
Renowned  Spencer,  lie  a  thought  more  nigh,  101 
Ring  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shews  he  spread,  57 
Roll  on  thou  ball,  roll  on !  393 
Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea,  333 

S 

Say  not,  the  struggle  naught  availeth,  339 


548  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet ;  critic,  you  have  frowned,  203 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,  193 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulnessl  272 

Shall  I  strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel,  398 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair,  105  >, 

She  is  all  so  slight,  536  f 

She  is  most  fair,  519  '! 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view,  274  il 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night,  248  ' 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight —  433 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight,  200 

She  was  only  a  woman,  famished  for  loving,  431 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot,  193 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John !  fatigued  I  said,  160 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more,  71 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part!  64 

Six  years  had  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  six,  184 

So,  we  will  go  no  more  a  roving,  249 

Somber  and  rich,   the   skies,  498 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,   fill  the  fife.  213 

St.  Agnes'  Eve— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was !  263 

Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set,  236 

Stand  not  uttering  sedately,  482 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God!  211 

Still  let  my  tyrants  know,  I  am  not  doom'd  to  wear,  335 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest,  90 

Stop,   Christian   passerby!      Stop,    child   of  god!   235 

Strange  fits  of  passion  I  have  known :  197 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses,  341 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love,  303 

Summer  is  i-comen  in,  1 

Sunset  and  evening  star,   317 

Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain,  173 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright —  107 

Sweet  is  the  dew  that  falls  betimes,  173 

Sweet  stream  that  winds  through  yonder  glade,  177 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave,  259 


Take,  O  take  those  lips  away,  72 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean,  312 

Tell  me  not  Sweet,  I  am  unkind,  143 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is,  374 

....  that  blessed  mood,  210 

That  time  and  absence  proves,  94 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined,  119 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne,  82 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  549 

The  beasts  in  field  are  glad,  and  have  not  wit,  460 

The  blessed  damozcl  leaned  out,  368 

The  chambers  of  the  mansions  of  my  heart,  385 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day,  166 

The  doubt  of  future  foes,  11 

The  fire  is  out,  and  spent  the  warmth  thereof,  501 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear,  145 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state,  115 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls,  240 

The  hunched  camels  of  the  night,  468 

Theirs  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  village  poor,  183 

The  isles  of  Greece !  the  isles  of  Greece !  245 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town,  30 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's.  411 

The  Lady  Mary  Villiers  lies,  104 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest,  118 

The  moon  on  the  one  hand,  the  dawn  on  the  other :  508 

The  moth's  kiss  first!  333 

The  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter,  243 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost,  366 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius,  281 

The  old  rude  church,  with  bare,  bald  tower,  is  here,  459 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-cat  went  to  sea,  320 

The  play  is  done ;  the  curtain  drops,  319 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd,  78 

The  rain  set  early  in  to-night,  324 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face,  84 

There  is  an  old  woman  who  looks  each  night,  524 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods,  244 

There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound,  280 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear,  236 

There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls,  299 

There's   a  whisper   down  the   field   where   the  year  has   shot 

her  yield,  494 
There's  naught  but  care  on  every  han',  190 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream,  205 
There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  hour,  28 
The  sea  is  calm  to-night,  341 

These  are  the  letters  which  Endymion  wrote,  451 
The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er,  119 
These  little  songs,  361 

The  shores  of  Styx  are  lone  forevermore,  425 
The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings,  10 
The  spacious  firmament  on  high,  158 
The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls,  312 
The  star-crowned  cliffs  seem  hinged  upon  the  sky,  518 
The  star  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold,  120 
The  sunbeams  in  the  east  are  spread :  97 


550  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain,  144 

The  wine  of  Love  is  music,  386 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things,  431 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon,  203 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew,  261 

They  are  all  gone — into  the  world  of  light!  150 

The  year's  at  the  spring,  322 

The  3'oung  May  moon  is  beaming,  love,  240 

The  young  moon  is  white,  522 

They  told  me,  Meraclitus,  they  told  mo  you  were  dead,  358 

This  figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put,  91 

Thou  art  my  dream,  but  for  my  last  delight,  525 

Thou  burden  of  all  songs  the  earth  hath  sung,  461 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray,  195 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness,  266 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  West,  338 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born,  152 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright,  1S6 

Tinged  with  my  kisses  go,  go  thou  to  her,  484: 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer,  241 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved,  249 

To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land,  154 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question —  81 

To  draw  no  envy  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name,  91 

To  drift  with  every  passion,  till  my  soul,  434 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb,  170 

Toll  for  the  brave  !  179_ 

To  part  now,  and,  parting  now,  489 

To  suffer  woes  which  hope  thinks  infinite,  262 

To  thee,  fair  freedom  !  I  retire,  165 

To  these  I  turn,  in  these  I  trust,  536 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight,  4 

Tread  lightly,  she  is  near,  450 

True  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank,  16 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won,  152 

'Twas  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves,  384 

'Twas  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast,  390 

'Twas  the  dream  of  a  God,  508 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot,  414 

U 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse,  106 

Under  the  arch  of  summer,  526 

Under  the  greenwood  tree,  69 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky,  432 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  greensward,  375 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  551 

Upon  the  eyes,  the  lips,  the  feet  501 

Up  over  windy  wastes  and  up,  517 

Up  the  airy  mountain,  362 

Up,  youths  and  virgins,  up  and  praise,  90 

V 

Vital  spark  of  heav'nly  flame!  161 

W 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay,  212 

Walking  through  trees  to  cool  my  heat  and  pain,  537 

Was  this  the  face  that  launch'd  a  thousand  ships,  65 

We  are  the  music  makers,  417 

We  are  the  voices  of  the  wandering  wind,  385 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will,  342 

We  caught  the  tread  of  dancing  feet,  452 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee :  60 

We  have  met  late — it  is  too  late  to  meet,  288 

We'll  fill  a  Provence  bowl  and  pledge  us  deep,  524 

Well,  then,  I  now  do  plainly  see,  143 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte,  318 

We  would  have  inward  peace,  354 

"What  are  the  bugles  blowin'  for?"  said  Files-on-Parade,  491 

What  constitutes  a  state?  180 

"What  do  you  sell,  John  Camplejohn,  475 

What  foreland  fledged  with  m3rrrh,  390 

What  heart  could  have  thought  you? — 468 

What  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write,  shews,  157 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honored  bones,  133 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan,  289 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes,  109 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command,  163 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer,  73 

When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue,  67 

When  do  I  see  thee  most  beloved  one?  371 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest,  383 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent,  134 

"When  I  have  fears  that  1  may  cease  to  be,  263 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes,  75 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly,  176 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings,  142 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die,  238 

When  men  shall  find  thy  flower,  thy  glory  pass,  61 

When  Queen  Djenira  slumbers  through,  510 

When  that  Arthur  was  King,  1 


552  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

When  the  British  Warrior  Queen,  178 

When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black,  317 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces,  395 

When  the  last  sea  is  sailed,  when  the  last  shallow's  charted,  518 

When  the  ways  are  heavy  with  mire  and  rut,  412 

When  thou  must  home  to  shadows  underground,  83 

When  j^ou  are  old  and  gray  and  full  of  sleep,  486 

Where  is  a  holier  thing,  479 

Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn?  231 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep,  196 

Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown,  469 

Whither,  O  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails  crowding,  421 

Whoe'er  she  be,  138 

Whoever  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm,  96 

Who  is  Sylvia?     What  is  she?  67 

Who  wants  a  gown,  273 

Who  wins  his  Love  shall  lose  her,  423 

Why  dost  thou  shade  thy  lovely  face?     O,  why,  156 

Why,  if  'tis  dancing  you  would  be,  463 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?  138 

Why,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend,  237 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn,  275 

With  rue  my  heart  is  laden,  464 


Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around,  194 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon,  189 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green,  109 

Ye  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes,  39 

Ye  Mariners  of  England,  239 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  Laurels,  and  once  more,  129 

You  are  carried  in  a  basket,  428 

You  come  not,  as  aforetime,  to  the  headstone  every  day,  359 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night,  86 

Your  eyen  two  wol  slec  me  sodenly,  5 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


A  Amarillis,  85 

A  Match,  406 
A  Ballad  of  a  Nun,  453  A  Memory  of  Earth,  501 

A  Ballad  Upon  a  Wedding,  135  A  Musical  Instrument,  289 


Abou  Ben  Adhem,  243 

Absence,  94 

A  Birthday,  196 

A  Charge,  496 

A   Comparison.     Addressed  to 

a  Young  Lady,  177 
A  Cradle  Song,  13 
A  Creed,  482 
A  Denial,  288 
A  Dirge,  57 
A    Dirge,    from    "The    White 

Devil,"  99 
A  Duet,  507 
Advice  to  a  Boy,  470 
"Ae  Fond  Kiss,"  191 
A  Farewell  to  Arms,  59 
After  Love,  489 
After  Two  Years,  536 
A  Garden  Song,  410 


An  Epitaph,  510 

An  Epitaph  on  a  Husbandman. 
472 

An  Epitaph  on  the  Admirable 
Dramatic  Poet,  W.  Shake- 
speare, 133 

An  Horatian  Ode  upon  Crom- 
well's Return  from  Ireland. 
145 

An  Ode  to  Master  Anthony 
Stafford  to  Hasten  Him 
into  the  Country,  116 

A  Passer-By,  422 

A   Poison  Tree,  188 

A  Prayer,  425 

Arab  Love-Song,  468 

A  Red,  Red  Rose,  192 

Ashore,  497  _ 

Asking  Forgiveness,  488 


"Age  with  Stealing  Steps,"  184  A  Song,  484 
Agincourt    (October  25,   1415)     Aspatia  s  Song,  104 

62 
A  Grammarian's  Funeral,  327 
Ah,  How  Sweet  It  Is  to  Love! 

153 
Ah,  Sunflower,  187 
A  Japanese  Love  Song,  522         ^^  ^^^  Stage-Door,  487 

J?;^*n^^  crJ'^'^^oa   ^'°"'   A  Tragedyr431 

the  Quiet  Skies,    428  ^^j^^  Lang  Syne,  193 

All  of  Roses,  534 

A  Love-Song,  482 

Amantium  Irae,  10 

A  Man's  Daughter,  524 

553 


A  Superscription,  373 

A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for  His 

House,  114 
At  Her  Window,  340 
A  Toccata  of  Gallupi's,  325 
At  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night,  241 


Autumn,  461 
A        Valediction 
Mourning,  95 
Ave  Atque  Vale,  398 


Forbidding 


554 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


B  Danny  Deever,  491 

Dark  Rosaleen,  284 

<<T-    ui  ^t  Death  the  Conqueror,  115 

"Emblems    of  Ocirdre.  533 

Delight  in  Disorder,  112 
Departure,   361 
Dirce,  236 
Dover  Beach,  341 
Drake's  Drum,  480 
Dream-Pedlary,  286 
Drega,  501 
Drinking,  144 


Balkis.      From 

Love."  530 
Ballade  of  Middle  Age.  424 
Ballad    of    John     Camplejohn 

475 
Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty,  21 
Baudelaire,  425 
Binnorie,    28 
Boadicea.     An  Ode,  178 
Bonnie  Doon,  189 
Break,  Break,  Break,  314 
Bruce    to    His    Men    at    Ban- 

nockburn.  193 
Butterflies,  457     . 
Byron's  Farewell.  249 
By  the  Statue  of  King  Charles 
at  Charing  Cross,  498 


Cadwith,  498 

Cargoes,  515 

Cherry-Ripe,  84 

Chevy  Chase,  33 

Chloe,   157 

Chorus      from      "Atalanta      in 

Calydon,"  395 
Chorus  on  the  Death  of  Faus- 

tus,  65 
Clerk  Saunders,  24 
"Come       into       the       Garden 


Easter,  108 

Elegy  on  a  Lady  Whom  Grief 
for  the  Death  of  Her  Be- 
trothed Killed,  420 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 
Churchyard,  166 

Elena's  Song,  282 

Elizabeth  of  Bohemia,  86 

England.  1802,  204 

Epilogue.  From  "Asolando," 
335 

Epitaph,  104 

Epitaphium  Citharostriae,  482 

Epitaph  of  the  Countess  Dow- 
ager of  Pembroke,  106 

Epitaph  on  Himself  (S.  T. 
Coleridge),  235 

Epitaph  on  Himself  (Mat- 
thew Prior),   158 

Epithalamion,  39 


Maud,"  309  ^i.....„_....^ 

"Comin'  Through  the  Rye,"  19C   Evelyn  Hope,  322 
Composed     upon     Westminster   Extreme  Unction,  501 

Bridge,  September  3,  1802, 

204  F 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying,  110 
Crossing  the  Bar,  317 
Cupid  and  Campaspe,  53 


D 

Daily  Bread,  520 
Daisy,  469 


Fair  Ines,  279 

Fairy  Song,  283 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies,  100 

Fidele's  Dirge,  170 

Flesh,     I     Have     Knocked     a1 

Many  a  Dusty  Door,  511 
Flos  Virginium,  479 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


555 


Follow  Your  Saint,  83 
Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Maia, 

263 
Friends  Departed,  150 
From    "A    Shropshire    Lad," 

463 
From  "Adonais,"  256 
From     "Alexander's     Feast," 

152 
From  an  Epithalamium,  90 
From  "An  Ode  to  Sir  Lucius 
Cary  and  Sir  H.  Morri- 
son,"   90 
From    "Antony   and    Cleopa- 
tra," 82 
From  "As  You  Like  It,"  80 
From   "Cavalier   Tunes,"   321 
From  "Christabel,"  234 
From  "Comus,"  120 
From  "Cynthia  Revels,"  89 
From    "Empedocles     on    Et- 
na," 354 
From  "Epigrams,"  460 
From  "Epithalamion,"  97 
From  "Esther,"  410 
From     "Fleet      Street     Eco- 

logues,"  458 
From  "Hamlet,"  81 
From  "Henry  V,"  80 
From  "Herod,"  505 
From  "Horatius,"  281 
From  "Hymn  to  Astarte,"  390 
From  "In  Hospital,"  428 
From  "In  Memoriam,"  303 
From  Letter  to   Ben  Jonson, 

103 

From     "Lines     Composed     a 

Few  Miles  Above  Tintern 

Abbey,"  210 

From      "Lines      Written      in 

Kensington  Gardens,"  356 

From   "London   Voluntaries," 

429 
From  "Love's  Chariot,"  90 
From  "Marpessa,"  504 
From  "Marriage  Song,"  528 
From    "Measure    for    Meas- 
ure," 82 


From  "Modern  Love,"  380 

From  "Orestes,"  389 

From  Prologue  to  "Tristram 
of  Lyonesse,"  403 

From  "Prometheus  Unbound," 
262 

From  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  79 

From  "Satires,"  160 

From  "Song  to  Davis,"  173 

From  "Sonnets  from  the  Por- 
tugese," 286 

From  "Sylvia,"  273 

From  the  "Arcadia,"  56 

From  "The  Ballad  of  the 
White  Horse,"  517 

From  "The  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence,"  162 

From  "The  City  of  Dreadful 
Night,"  385 

From  "The  Coming  of  Love," 
393 

From  "The  Deserted  Village," 
173 

From  "The  Dreamer,"  4 

From  the  "Essay  on  Man," 
160 

From  "The  Eve  of  St.  Ag- 
nes," 263 

From  "The  Forest,"  89 

From  "The  Gray  Monk,"  189 

From  "The  Honest  Whore," 
87 

From  "The  Kings'  Quhair,"  7 

From  "The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,"  214 

From  "The  Life  and  Death  of 
Dr.  Faustus,"  65 

From  "The  Love  of  King 
David  and  Fair  Bethsabe," 
59 

From  "The  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice," 78 

From  "The  Mourning  Bride," 
158 

From  "The  Passionate  Pil- 
grim," 74 

From  "The  Princess,"  310 


556 


indp:x  of  titlfs 


From  "The  Progress  of  Po- 
etry," a  Pindaric  Ode,  169 

From  "The  Rape  of  the 
Lock,"  161 

From  "The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar 
Khayyam,"  290 

From  "The  Task" ;  Book  III, 
"The  Garden,"  177 

From  "The  Tempest,"  83 

From  "The  Testament  of 
John  Davidson,"  457 

From  "The  Triumph  of 
Time,"  393 

From  the  "Sonnets"  of 
Shakespeare,   75 

From  "The  Winter's  Tale,"  82 

From  "To  Delia,"  61 

From  "Wordsworth's  Grave," 
459 


Give  a  Man  a  Horse  He  Can 

Ride,  386 
Glencoe,  518 
God   Laeus,  99 
Golden  Hair,  527 
"Go,  Lovely  Rose,"  118 
"Green  Grow  the  Rashes  O!" 

190 
Growing  Old,  524 


Home      They      Brought      Her 

Warrior  Dead,  313 
Home  Thoughts,  From 

Abroad,  321 
How      Many      Voices       Gaily 

Sing,  237 
"How  Sleep  the  Brave,"  171 
How  Soon  Hath  Time,  133 
Hunting  Song,  212 
Hymn   to   the   Name  of  Jesus, 

142 


Idle  Charon,  425 

If  I  Were  King  (After  Vil- 
lon), 474 

"I  Heard  a  Soldier,"  497 

II   Penseroso,   125 

Impression,  426 

In  After  Days,  413 

Infant  Joy,  185 

In  Flanders'  Field,  508 

In  Memoriam,  516 

In  the  Highlands,  432 

In  the  Moonlight,  408 

Invictus,  427 

Invocation,   102 

Ireland,  508 

I  Strove  with  None,  237 

"I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a 
Cloud,"  203 


H 


Happy  Thought,  431 
Haunted  in  Old  Japan,  521 
Helas,  434 

Helen  of  Kirconnell,  19 
Hellas,  261 
Heraclitus,  358 
Hester,  238 
Heyst-sur-Mer,  526 
Highland   Mary,  194 
His  Epitaph,  8 
His  Pilgrimage,  15 
His  Theme,  108 


Jabberwocky,  384 

Jean,  192 

Jenny  Kiss'd  Me,  242 

John  Anderson,  194 

Jolly  Good  Ale  and  Old,  12 

Judas  Iscariot,  414 

K 

King  Arthur,  1 
Kubla  Kahn,  230 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


557 


La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci,  268 

L' Allegro,  122 

Last  Lines,  336 

Last  Sonnet,  273 

L'Envoi,  494 

Life,  180 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air,  260 

Lost  Love,  423 

Love,  232 

Love  in  the  Valley,  375 

Love  Is  Enough,  387 

Love's  Emblems,  from  "Valen- 

tinian,"  98 
Lucifer  in  Starlight,  380 
Lucy,  197 

Lucy  Ashton's  Song,  213 
Lycidas,  129 

M 

Mandalay,  489 

May,  242 

Melancholy,    from    "The    Nice 

Valor,"  99 
Memorabilia,  333 
Merciles  Beute,  5 
Messmates,  480 
Milton,  187 

Minstrels   Song  in    "Ella,"   182 
Mo-lennav-a-chree,  434 
Morality,  342 
Morning  Song.  118 
Music,  When  Soft  Voices  Die 

261 
My  Boat  Is  on  the  Shore,  249 
My  Bonnie  Mary,  191 
"My    Days    Among    the    Dead 

Are  Passed,"  235 
My  Garden,  384 
My  Lute,  Awake,  9 
My  Silks  and  Fine  Array,  186 


N 


Nightingales,  422 


Nightmare  (Written  During 
Apparent  Imminence  of 
War),  462 

Not  Dead,  537 

Num  Sum  Qualis  Eram  Bonae 
Sub  Regno  Cynarse,  500 


Ode,  417 

Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality from  Recollec- 
tions of  Early  Childhood. 
205 

Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn,  266 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  270 

Ode  to  Duty,  211 

Ode  to  Evening,  171 

Ode  to  Psyche,  269 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  254 

O  God!  Our  Help  in  Ages 
Past,  159 

"Oh,  May  I  Join  the  Choir  In- 
visible," 337 

Old  Age  and  Death,  119 

On  a  Fly  Drinking  Out  of  His 
Cup.  159 

On  a  Girdle,  119 

On  Charles  II,  156 

One-and-Twenty,  165 

One  Girl  (A  Combination  from 
"Sappho"),  374  _ 

On  First  Looking  into  Chap- 
man's Homer,  262 

On  His  Blindness,  134 

On  His  Deceased  Wife,  134 

On  Melancholy,  267 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Pied- 
mont, 134 

On  the  Loss  of  the  "Royal 
George."  179 

On  the  Portrait  of  Shake- 
peare  Prefixed  to  the  First 
Folio   Edition,  1623,  91 

On  the  Recent  Sale  by  Auction 
of  Keat's  Love  Letters,  451 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  313 

O  That  'Twere  Possible,  310 


558 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Parting  at  Morning,  333 
Peace,  532 

Perfect  Woman,  200 
Phillada  Flouts  Me,  22 
Philomel,  97 
PorphjTia's  Lover,  324 
Prayer,  516 
Prelude,  481 

Prelude  to  "The  Earthly  Para- 
dise," 386 
Prospice,  334 
Prothalamion,  48 
Proud  Maisie,  213 


Q 

Queen  Djenira,  510 
Quiet  Work,  340 


R 


Recessional,  471 

Recessional,  492 

Reeds  of  Innocence,  185 

Remember,  359 

Remember,  383 

Renouncement,  433 

Requiem,  432 

Requiescat,  341 

Requiescat,  450 

Requiescat,  483 

Rest,  383 

Romance,  431 

Rosalind's        Madrigal        from 

"Rosalind,"  58 
Rose  Aylmer.  236 
Rule,  Britannia,  163 


Sally  in  Our  Alley,  163 
Say  Not,  the  Struggle  Naught 
Availeth,  339 


Scorn  Not  the  Sonnet,  202 

Sea-Fever,  515 

Sephestia's  Lullaby,  60 

Shakespeare,  355 

Shepherd  Boy's  Song,  151 

"She  Walks  in  Beauty,"  248 

Ships,  512 

Silence,  280 

Simplex  Munditiis,  90 

Sir  Patrick  Spens,  30 

Some    Characters    from    "The 

Canterbury  Tales,"  2 
Song,  96 
Song,  104 
Song,  138 
Song,  153 
Song,  274 
Song,  302 
Song,  383 
Song,  417 
Song,  418 
Song,  458 

Song  from  "Arcades,"  119 
Song     from     "Astrophel     and 

Stella,"  55 
Song  from  "Chartivel,"  419 
Song  from  "Hamlet,"  71 
Song  from  "In  a  Gondola,"  333 
Song  from  "Much  Ado  About 

Nothing,"  71 
Song     from     "Pippa     Passes," 

323 
Song  from  "The  Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona,"  67 
Song      from      "The      Winter's 

Tale,"  73 
Song  from  "Twelfth  Night,"  71 
Song   of   Orpheus,    from    "The 

Life  and  Death  of  Jason," 

388 
Song  of  the  Lotos-Eaters,  299 
Songs     from     "A    Midsummer 

Night's  Dream,"  68 
Songs     from     "As     You     Like 

It,"  69 
Songs  from  "Cymbeline,"  72 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


550 


Songs     from    "Love's     Labour 

Lost,"  67 
Songs      from      "Measure      for 

Measure,"  72 
Songs    from    "The    Tempest," 

73 
Sonnet,  103 
Sonnet,  485 
Sonnet  on  Chillon,  248 
Sonnets,  52 
Sonnets    from    "Astrophel    and 

Stella,"  53 
Sonnets    from   "The  House  of 

Life,"  371 
Sonnet  to  Liberty,  451 
Sound,  Sound  the  Clarion,  213 
So,    We   will    Go    No    More   a 

Roving,  249 
Spring  Song,  474 
Summer  Is  Come,  10 
Summer  Is  I-Comen  In,  1 
Summum  Bonum,  334 
Sunset  and  Sea,  203 


T.  A.  C.  M.,  525 

Tara,  240 

Tears,  Idle  Tears,  312 

The  Age  of  Wisdom,  318 

The    Ballade    of    Dead    Ladies 

from  the  French  of  Fran- 

gois  Villon,  1450,  374 
The     Ballade     of     Prose     and 

Rhyme,  412 
The  Ballad  of  Keith  Ravelston 

366 
The    Ballad   of    Reading   Gaol 

435 
The  Blessed  Damozel,  368 
The  Bridge  of  Sighs,  277 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 

after  Corunna.  251 
The  Buried  Life.  356 
The  Burning-Glass,  502 
The  Cap  and  Bells,  486 
The    Character    of    a    Happy 

Life,  86 


The  Charge  of  the  Light  Bri- 
gade, 314 

The  Complaint  to  His  Empty 
Purse,  4 

The  Conclusion,  16 

The  Cricket,  473 

The  Dead,  532 

The  Dead  Poet,  506 

The  Desire,  477 

The  Doubt,  11 

The  Dream,  94 

The  Dying  Christian  to  His 
Soul,  161 

The  Early  Morning,  508 

The  End  of  the  Play,  319 

The  Faerie  Queen,  14 

The  Fairies,  362 

The  Fairy  Frolic,  53 

The  Frosted  Pane,  473 

The  Full  Heart,  537 

The  Funeral,  96 

The  Garden,  148 

The  Garden  of  Love,  188 

The  Garden  of  Prosperine,  396 

The  Gift,  502 

The  Good  Morrow,  93 

The  Happy  Heart,  from  "Pa- 
tient Grissell,"  87 

The  Harlot's  House,  452 

The  Hill,  532 

The  Hound  of  Heaven,  464 

The  Inner  Light,  416 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  245 

The  Knight's  Tomb,  231 

The  Ladies  of  St.  James',  411 

The  Lady  of  Shalott,  294 

The  Lady  of  the  Lambs,  433 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,  485 

The  Last  Ride  Together,  330 

The  Listeners,  509 

The  Lotos-Eaters,  298 

The  Lover's  Resolution,  105 

The  Man  He  Killed,  409 

The  Mystery,  520 

The  Night  Piece,  to  Julia,  109 

The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Pa"^- 
sionate  Pilgrim,  66 


560 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


The  Nymph's  Song  to  Hylas, 
from  "The  Life  and  Death 
of  Jason,"  388 

The  Oblation,  408 

The  Odyssey,  423 

The  Old  and  Young  Cour- 
tier, 88 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces,  237 

The  Orphan's  Song,  363 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat,  320 

The  Parish  Workhouse  from 
"The  Village,"  183 

The  Parting,  64 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to 
His  Love,  65 

The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud,  283 

The  Power  of  Malt,  463 

The  Precept  of  Silence,  500 

The  Prisoner,  335 

The  Rainbow,  201 

The  Retreat,  150 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner,  214 

The  Sands  of  Dee,  337 

The  Scholar-Gypsy,  343 

The  Silent  Voices.  317 

The  Snare,  to  A.  E.,  534 

The  Soldier,  533 

The  Solitary  Reaper,  199 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt,  275 

The  Sonnet,  371 

The  Sonnet-Prison.  203 

The  Sorrows  of  Werther,  318 

The  Spacious  Firmament  on 
High,  158 

The  Spires  of  Oxford,  528 

The  Splendid  Spur.  483 

The  Splendour  Falls  on  Castle 
Walls,  312 

The  State,  180 

The  Storv  of  Uriah,  493 

The  Toys,  300 

The  Three  Fishers,  338 

The  Tiger,  186 

The  Twa  Corbies,  27 

The  Unknown,  519 

The  Unrealised  Ideal,  339 


The  Vampire,  as  Suggested  by 
the  Painting  by  Philip 
Burne-Jones,  492 

The  Vanity  of  the  World 
106 

The  Vine,  386 

The  Voice  of  the  Bard,  187 

The  War-Song  of  Dinas 
Vawr,  243 

The  Wife  of  Llew,  523 

The  Wish,  143 

The  Woodlands,  282 

The  World  Is  Too  Much 
With  Us,  203 

The  Yarn  of  the  "Nancy 
Bell,"  390 

The  Young  May  Moon,  240 

Thomas  the  Rhymer,  16 

Thyrsis,  349 

"  'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Sum- 
mer," 241 

To  ,  260 

To  a  Boy-Poet  of  the  Deca- 
dence, 478 

To  Althea,  from  Prison,  142 

To  Anthea,  Who  May  Com- 
mand Him  Anything,  113 

To  a  Poet  a  Thousand  Year? 
Hence,  531 

To  a  Skylark,  252 

To  a  Snowflake,  468 

To  Austin  Dobson,  426 

To  Autumn,  272 

To  Ben  Jonson,  113 

To  Daffodils,  112 

To  His  Mistress,  156 

To  Lucasta,  Going  to  the 
Wars,  143 

To  Manon,  on  His  Fortune  in 
Loving  Her,  410 

To  Mary  in  Heaven,  195 

To  Mary  Unwin,  176 

To  Meadows,  259 

To  Mistress  Margery  Went- 
worth,  8 

To  Night,  259 

To  Omar  Khaj^am,  473 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


561 


To  One  Who  Would  Make  a 
Confession,  409 

To  Robert  Browning,  236 

To  the  Cuckoo,  181 

To  the  Cuckoo,  201 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the 
Cricket,  243 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Be- 
loved Master  William 
Shakespeare,  and  What 
He  Hath  Left  Us,  91 

To  the  Nightingale,  133 

To  the  Ocean  (From  "Childe 
Harold's  Pilgrimage"), 
244 

To  the  Sultan,  462 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe,  393 

To  the  Virgins,  to  Make 
Much  of  Time,   111 

To  These  I  Turn,  In  These 
I  Trust,  536 

Translated  from  the  Irish  of 
Padraic  Pearse,  519 

Triolet,  414 

U 

Ulysses,  315 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Mil- 
ton,  152 

Up-Hill.  382 

Upon  Returning  a  Silk  Hand- 
kerchief,  484 

V 

Vanitas    Vanitatum,    100 


Virtue,  107 
Vobiscum  est  lope,  83 

W 

Waly,  Waly,  20 

We  Are  the  Voices  of  the 
Whispering  Wind.  385 

"When  I  Have  Fears,"  263 

"When  You  Are  Old,"  486 

Whenas  In  Silks  My  Julia 
Goes,  109 

Why,  Why  Repine?  237 

Winter,  359 

Winter  Nights,  84 

Wishes  to  His  Supposed  Mis- 
tress,  138 

With  Rue  My  Heart  Is 
Laden,  464 

Woman,  176 

Work  Without  Hope,  232 

Written  at  An  Inn  at  Henlev, 
165 

Written  at  Sea,  in  the  First 
Dutch  War  (1665)  the 
Night  Before  An  Engage- 
ment, 154 

Written  on  His  Deathbed,  6 


"Ye    Mariners    of    England," 

239 
Youth  in  Arms,  521 


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